


New Horizons

by i_penna



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 85,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26186827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_penna/pseuds/i_penna
Summary: Fourth in a series of Love Never Dies fixer uppers. Everything in the lives of Erik and Christine is going well, but something is missing.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 37
Kudos: 41





	1. New Horizons

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to past and present readers and welcome to new readers to my Erik and Christine post Love Never Dies saga. Thank you DivineVarod (behindthemirrorofmusic) for sharing an idea that got this story rolling.

Erik restrains himself from slamming the fallboard down on the grand piano. Through the skylights in the Eyrie, the gray sky portends a storm signifying the true end of summer. Phantasma has been closed for a few weeks and the crew is battening down the rides and outbuildings, doing repairs as they go along. The major upgrades they did three years earlier after the fire that took Dreamland, make the maintenance simpler and Nadir is happy to oversee things.

When they were designing new attractions, Erik was intimately involved with everything. Gustave actually came to love architecture as much as he did – convincing Erik, it was indeed hereditary. Many of the additions had his fingerprint – a youthful view Erik no longer had, if he ever did. The darker rides and automatons were Erik’s creations – the more playful, brightly colored adventures bore Gustave’s stamp. Somehow it all worked out and the venue, if not as large as the surviving Luna and Steeplechase parks, holds its own with the public.

Now, however, the park was pretty much a fait accompli and both of them wanted to design more than rides and carnival attractions. Even young Henry seemed to love the idea of creating new buildings, the midget, now ten years old, has a gift for drawing and a vivid imagination, so the three of them spend much of their time, when the boys are not in school, designing houses.

So far the war in Europe is not affecting them, nevertheless the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand sent rumbles throughout the United States. For his part, Erik never became very involved in politics, it seemed there was always some sort of war going on in Europe and he had little interest in places he had no plan of returning to.

Nadir is always tossing newspapers under his nose demanding he read this or that. Despite his efforts to indicate his lack of interest, such as tossing the rags, as he calls them, into the trash or simply sweeping them onto the floor, the daroga keeps insisting Erik keep apprised of what was happening in Europe. Money, he would say. Think about the money. Fiscally, they could not have been in better shape, so the constant harping fell on deaf ears.

This morning was different. Erik’s attention is drawn to an article in the paper he left sitting on the music desk of the piano. A photograph is removed from his wallet. A photograph that haunts him – a girl, perhaps three years old, bound by ropes, on display with the monkeys and lizards brought to the United States from the Philippines.

The photograph drew him to Luna to see for himself if this was a reality. He knew of the human zoos and abhorred the practice. It was one thing to give people work, enabling them to use their deformities to earn them a living – quite another to exploit people captured or bribed to live as animals. The memories the photo evokes are more than painful – they enrage him.

The Village of Little People at Dreamland was not quite at that level – at least the residents were treated as human beings, not animals. The fire brought a number of dwarfs and midgets to Phantasma. Some moved on to Luna, others left to find work in with other amusement operations – Erik gave work to as many as he could. In the case of Henry and Margaret, twins who only just arrived at Dreamland, having been abandoned at a nearby orphanage, they were adopted by Erik and Christine. Their parents nowhere to be found despite their efforts. The twins were legally adopted and found their place in the Saint-Rien household. At ten years, they filled the age gap between the sixteen-year-old Gustave or Goose, as he is called, and the kidlets – Emilie six and Joshua, now three.

The Filipino Zoo Girl disturbed him more than the others in the _zoo_ – most were adults and he suspected they were here because they had been recruited in some way – their treatment was loathsome, but her plight was all too reminiscent of what he suffered at the hands of the gypsies forty years ago. This baby did not understand wages or being on display as some sort of animal.

Sure enough, the visitors threw her peanuts to eat. Speaking to the management of the park got him nowhere. She was their property. She was being cared for. Why would they let any harm come to her, she made money for them?

The news in today’s paper heartened him – the Philippines passed a comprehensive anti-slavery law that prohibited taking their tribesmen for these kinds of exhibits and ending the practice permanently, which shut down all the human zoos in the United States. Erik knew well enough how these things worked - the Filipino government was actually implicit in this practice and in fact made money off of these zoos. Still it was over – all of the inhabitants of the “zoo” were to be returned to their homeland. The little girl gone with them.

And, so it was, neither the affairs of the world nor Phantasma need of his attention. Free time – precious free time that has been lacking over these past few years. Time enough now to write his music – not the simple notes and rhythms the shows demand – but another opera, perhaps, even a new aria for Christine.

The destruction of the Dreamland Ballroom gave Erik another venue – not as large, but still popular and a place for Christine to perform with Rudolph – keeping the conductor and orchestra employed. Still, her voice was not being utilized as it should – he missed the soaring notes of her coloratura.

Did she?

His gaze returns to the piano. Lifting the fallboard again, he places his long fingers against the ebony and ivory keys and waits for those ten digits to grace the keyboard with speed and passion or with gentle strokes and intricate movements creating new melodies – expressions of his heart and soul – but nothing comes. His hands are frozen in space.

All his life he wished to be an ordinary man and now he was…successful, even admired, loving and beloved husband and father, friend to many, no known enemies, the pain of his youth and early years left in a past he seldom even dreams about anymore.

Tears flood his eyes to the point, he removes his mask to dry the thin, fine plastic he found to cover his face without the weight and chafing he experienced in the past. So much good. So much happiness – joy. What more could he want? Why did he feel such emptiness? Such pain?

Closing the fallboard again, he allows himself the sobs tugging at his heart and cries. “My music. Where is my music?”

"Where is your father?" Christine asks Gustave, entering the conservatory. With the exception of her hair, still hanging loosely over her shoulders, she is garbed for the day in a pale green day dress that enhances the color of her clear eyes. A smile curves her lips as she takes in the sight of her children. With the exception of Joshua, who is being tended to by Helen in the kitchen, the other four sit around the Sun room table, eating their breakfasts.

“Phantasma,” Emilie offers, determinedly cutting her French toast into neat squares. “He made breakfast.” Dressed in her favorite lavender voile dress, black curls tied into pony tails on either side of her head, she holds up a square to show her mother.

“Perfectly done, dear…as always.” If Gustave reflected the artistic and deliberative side of Erik, Emilie was miniature version of the man who allowed himself no margin of error – the perfectionist, even to the extent of precisely cut breakfast food. “No eggs?”

“Maman, you know eggs are in the batter,” her daughter says, tsking for good measure. Six years old going on forty. If Adele visited more often, she would suspect Emilie was taking life lessons from her Godmother. It was through Emilie Christine could see how Erik and Madame Giry were able to maintain a relationship over decades – they thought so much alike, even if the manner in which they carried out their ideas might be different.

“He made some for you, too, Mam Christine,” Margaret says, pointing to a plate with a domed cover. Her thick dark blonde hair, tinged with highlights of red is pulled back, tied with a satin ribbon at the back of her neck. Like Emilie, she chose a favorite dress – hers a pale yellow.

“That was quite thoughtful,” Christine answers, walking around the table to take her seat between Gustave and Henry. “This looks like a party…nothing like our usual breakfasts. Is there some occasion of which I am unaware?”

“Papa said he treasures us and we deserve the best,” Emilie says, pouring more maple syrup on her already soaked slices of fried bread.

“He did say that,” Henry says, swallowing the bite he just took. “I never had bread like this before, so being a treasure is okay with me.” His always infectious smile, made more charming by a missing front tooth, inspires a laugh from the entire group.

“And did he help all of you dress as well?”

Henry shakes his head, he is wearing the new sailor suit he received for his birthday. Despite now having an armoire of his own for the new clothing acquired over the past three years, the sailor suit is his favorite. “No, Mam Christine, I picked this out.”

“You always wear that outfit,” Gustave laughs. “The only time you wear something else is when it is in the wash or when you go to bed.”

“I like it,” Henry sticks out his tongue at the older boy. Since he is older and considerably taller, Gustave now wears clothing more suited to grown men – having left short pants and tunics behind. Conservative, like his father, his is understated in gray pants and a white cotton club collar shirt.

When Christine looks at all of them, she sees family – everyone fits. Henry and Margaret’s coloring favors her – even if the twins’ hair is a bit lighter and their skin more florid. Emilie is the one set apart at this gathering, although Joshua shares the black hair – if not the golden eyes. Those belong only to Erik and his natural born daughter.

“He told us he wanted us to look nice for our Maman,” Gustave tells her. “Said we should take more care in the morning – that messy hair and ill-matched garments have no place at the breakfast table.”

“Goodness, I wonder what brought all this about.”

“He is acting funny,” Emilie says, continuing to focus on her food. While the other children tend to wear bright and cheerful looks, even when they are sitting still – Emilie eyes everyone with a skepticism unusual in a six-year-old.

_“She is an old soul,” Madame Larushka, the fortune teller at Phantasma told Christine she first saw the child as an infant. “She knows things and you must always trust her judgment about other people. She can read their intentions.”_

Christine is not so certain of that – the little girl has been spoiled by both her and Erik. Partly because of her beauty and her wiles – neither of them deny she is gifted at manipulating both of them – but Christine’s miscarriage, the loss of Belle, make her all the more precious to them. Her daughter does come up with some amazing statements on occasion, so perhaps, Madame L is not far wrong.

After so many years traveling with Pappa across Europe, Christine is wise enough to not question the words of the gypsies and other fortune tellers. Truth be told, her father turned out to a bit of a mystic himself when he told her about an Angel of Music. She doubts he would have suspected Erik to be an angel any more than she did, but Pappa was very trusting of universal good and would never believe his daughter could be harmed by an angel he sent for her. Oh, Pappa, what you did not know about your angel. What would you think of your granddaughter?

Gustave, for all his attempts to discipline his little sister, is also under her spell. After so many years of being referred to as Master Gustave or young sir or simply Gustave – the pronouncement that his name was really Goose won him over. Gus might have saved him some ribbing from the other boys at school, Gus being a more acceptable nickname, but Goose was preferable to the very formal and European sounding Gustave. Introduced to Gustave as Goose by Emilie, with young Joshua now joining in, Gustave relished his nickname and even introduced himself as Goose Saint-Rien as often as not.

When the twins joined the family – they brought a down-to-earth quality to the family, grounding them all with their plain-spokenness. What Erik, Christine and Miss Fleck could determine was their parents were farmers who lost their land. They left the children at the orphanage not out of upset for the fact the twins were midgets, but because they could no longer care for them. 

Over time, the twins revealed the conditions they lived in…the lack of food and the systematic sale of the farm animals and furniture from the house. One day before dawn, their mam and pap handed each of them a sack with a set of clothing, a toy…Margaret’s doll and Henry’s ball…and a Bible, then loaded them in the wooden cart. Their goat sold left their father to pull while Mam and the children rode to a large house they never saw before. They were told good people would be taking care of them and to not be afraid. _“We love you both so much and we want you to be happy and well cared for.”_ The last words spoken before the couple drove off.

The boy and girl had none of the fears of children who had been criticized or punished in any way for who they were, if anything they were exceptionally well adjusted and loving children. They were just poor.

Despite the efforts to search for the family, based on those and other recollections by Henry – describing the house and their land, the parents could not be located and no one in the town where the orphanage was located had ever seen Henry or Margaret. The people who ran the orphanage, knowing of the Lilliputian Village contacted Dreamland and the children were picked up the day of the fire.

This was the family seated at the breakfast table eating French toast prepared by their adored, if absent, Papa or Pap Erik as Henry and Margaret call him.

“And so, Miss Emilie, did your _funny_ Papa say why he was going to Phantasma without taking any of us with him?”

“Nooo, but I think he is sad.”

“Gustave?”

“I agree, Maman.”

“So if we were to put this to a vote, you believe Papa is unhappy about something.”

All the children nod their heads vigorously.

“I must agree,” Christine says. “He has been particularly quiet these days, which we all know is not like Papa at all.”

Nadir and Erik work well together, despite their ever-present bickering. Darius coming on board as a counselor for the “freaks.” Work often proved too much or some customers treated them with less than respect, so having someone to go to, even to blow off steam was very successful. Darius’ prosthetic hand gave him additional credibility. Everyone commented on his compassion. Abuse of alcohol and drugs was almost unheard of now. Squelch and Dr. Gangle took responsibility for overseeing the carnival performers and Adele managed the theater. Despite the success of Phantasma, far surpassing what any of the adults hoped or suspected, Erik was not as enthusiastic as some might expect.

“I think I might know what is wrong,” Gustave says getting up from his seat – running from the room. “Hold on a minute.”

“Mam – would you like some tea?” Margaret asks, lifting the cozy from the tea pot to pour Christine a cup, pushing the sugar bowl and creamer toward her.

“Papa prepared this, too?”

The little girl nods. “I was up before everyone else – even Helen. Pap Erik was in the kitchen getting everything together, so I helped him.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He just said how wonderful it was we have such a happy family, then asked if there was a special song I liked in the show.”

“And is there?”

“I told him I liked Bathing Beauty because Maizie got to wear all those different costumes,” she says. “I love costumes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He laughed and said _Oh, no_. Then he began to sing the song to me and asked me to join him and do the dance,” she shrugs, “And so I did.”

“That must have been fun.”

“Yes, sort of, but then he got all sad like and told me he wrote an opera once and other beautiful music.”

“I see,” Christine says, reaching across the table to squeeze the girl’s hand.

“Papa is sad about music,” Emilie says taking another bite of toast.

“He told you that?”

“No, he just is.”

“Yes, I was hoping I was mistaken, but, you are right.”

Gustave returns to the room, holding a sheaf of papers. He waves them in the air before handing them to his mother. “I found these in the trash.”

“In Papa’s office?”

“No.” His response out of his mouth almost before Christine finishes her question. “I am not allowed his office when he is not there – these were in the bin by the furnace.”

Christine sifts through the papers. “These are songs – or one long piece.” Looking more closely, she shakes her head. “No, these are not simple songs, this here appears to be an aria.” She sings a few of the notes. “This is lovely – sad, but lovely. Why would he throw this away?”

Not meeting her eyes, the eldest son shrugs. “That is why I saved them.”

“I think I must speak to your Papa.”

Emilie nods solemnly.

“Well, if our family fortune teller agrees, then the talk must take place as soon as possible.”

The consensus of smiles around the table convinces Christine talking is the best tack to take.

“Are you going to the park today, Gustave?”

“Yes – Nadir will be picking me up in…” he turns around to look at the Ormolu clock…”fifteen minutes.”

Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she rises from her seat taking the music with her. “Wait for me – I shall quickly dress my hair and meet you outside.”

“We shall wait,” Gustave says as Christine leaves the room. “Now the rest of you, finish your food and put your dirty dishes on the tray.”

The sound of the door opening startles Erik. No one except Adele is supposed to know he is here. Why cannot people just leave him alone for even a short while? Solitude is a distant memory – years of being alone…isolated…vanished and…surprisingly missed from time to time. This being one of them.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes his eyes before grabbing his wig and mask from the top of the piano, putting them back on. “Who is there?” he growls, getting to his feet. “I instructed Madame Giry to tell everyone I was not to be bothered. Can none of you follow instructions?”

“Only your wife, whom you left abandoned in her bed this morning without saying good-bye,” Christine retorts, coming out of the shadows. “I thought you had given up that practice.”

Erik grunts before closing his eyes and shaking his head, “What?” Her allusion to a time years before escapes him for a moment. Why would she think of that? Was she aware of the brief moment he gave thought to his lack of seclusion? Was he that transparent? “I am sorry – of course you are always welcomed.” Instead of walking toward her, however, he returns to his place on the piano bench.

Christine continues across the expanse of the Eyrie, taking off her cloak and bonnet as she walks, leaving them and her reticule on the settee.

“The breakfast you made was wonderful – the children really enjoyed the treat and having their Papa take care of them.” As she nears the piano, she stops short, not approaching him, standing to one side as she would if performing.

“I had a restless night and the kindest thing I thought to do was allow you a peaceful sleep and give the children a treat.”

“It was not long ago would you have simply locked yourself in the music room and played the piano until it would seem your fingers would bleed,” Christine says, setting the papers Gustave found on the piano’s frame, resting her folded hands on top of them. “The Erik of those days would not have thought what might be kind.”

His shoulders fall, he rests his elbows on the fallboard, holding his head in his hands. “No, I suppose I would have damned and cursed everyone and believed the world a horrible place. Now I know better.”

“Erik, for goodness sake, what is wrong?”

“I wish I knew,” he says, looking up at her, the tears visible in the amber eyes. Taking off his mask, he again wipes his eyes.

“Do you think you might be too happy?”

“What?”

“You have been so full of self-hatred your entire life – maybe you feel you do not deserve it – you are waiting for the gods to rain down some sort of punishment for all the goodness in your life – including your own goodness.”

“Maybe they have.”

“Oh, my darling man, what has you in this state?” Christine says, leaving her place at the side of the piano, joining him on the bench, taking him into her arms.

“I feel an emptiness – as I did all those years ago when you were still in Paris and Phantasma was just opening.”

The long days and nights creating the park helped him forget Christine for moments and even hours at a time. Too much work to do – the automatons, hiring staff, creating rides and other features…and writing songs. Songs – trashy, simple songs. No one wanted elegance and beauty…just happy-go-lucky ditties they could hum as they left the theater. When he had the idea to entice Christine to come to New York, he had to write something magnificent – she would become his muse again and the aria came to life – along with his spirit.

Cocking her head, she says, “Continue.”

“I have lost my music and…”

“And?”

“I fear I might lose you…”

“What?”

“I fear you will grow tired of me…of the music you are singing – modern melodies – nothing to challenge you.”

“I suppose there is some truth to what you say.”

“I knew it,” he moans.

“Stop. I meant about the music – the songs I sing now,” She says, slapping his knee. “I shall never grow tired of you or our life together. Neither of us had a normal life – now we do and maybe, maybe, we are a little complacent – missing the imbalance of being nomads with only music to ground us.”

“There must be something about depression and anger and hating the world that stimulates my creativity because now, when I am blissful most of the time, I find I cannot write. Melodies are no longer struggling to be born.”

“That is why you came here alone today?”

He nods. “Even by bringing my workshop above the ground, you have to admit it is quite dark and dreary up here.”

“I have noticed that, yes,” Christine says smiling, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I want to write something big – important – not just trivia like _Bathing Beauty.”_

“People love that song. Little Margaret told us you sang and danced with her today.”

The first smile since her arrival crosses his face. “She is quite adorable.”

“I know that is not enough – you said yourself when you finished _Don Juan Triumphant_ you would die…and I suppose, in a way, you did. You are not the same man who wrote that opera.”

“But another opera? Since then I have only written one aria?”

Getting up again, Christine retrieves the sheaf of papers Gustave gave her. “What about this?”

Taking the sheets from her, he frowns. “Where did you get these?”

“Gustave found them in the trash bin…to be burned in the furnace.”

He riffles through the music in his hand saying, “This was a false start – something I tried to write when Raoul was here talking about that book – _The_ _Phantom of the Opera_ – I wanted to write the truth – it became too painful.”

“The song is beautiful.”

Smoothing the papers, he looks at the music more closely. “I wrote this for you…and your father.” Sifting through the other pages, putting the sheets in order. “There is a violin introduction…ah, here it is.”

“About my Pappa?”

He hands her some of the pages. “These have some lyrics, such as they are…I never finished.”

Christine sings:

_Wishing you were_

_Somehow here again_

_Wishing you were_

_Somehow near_

_Sometimes it seemed_

_If I just dreamed_

_Somehow you would_

_Be here._

“Oh, Erik, do you have more? You did not burn it…tell me you did not burn it.”

“I dreamed of you singing like that again.” Shaking his head, he says, “No – I have too much ego. The score, such as I have written is at home – I do not know how this wound up in the trash, though.”

“Gustave.”

“He was going through my music. He knows better.”

“As he informed me when I asked where he found this song.”

“I am not certain how I should feel – he disobeyed me – invaded my privacy,” Erik says. “How can I be angry – this is a gift, although I am not certain I can take this up again.

“You told me it took you over twenty years to write Don Juan Triumphant.”

“Since I attached my death to the completion of the work, I felt there was no rush,” he manages a laugh. The anxiety gripping him begins to lessen and a calm settles in. This woman has always had an effect on him – be it calming or exciting – whatever he needed at the moment, she provided.

“I should like to see more of this work…and have you finish this aria.”

“What about Gustave?”

“Snooping and lying are not good habits.”

“I am not certain I am the appropriate person to punish him for those misdeeds – I should not think such behaviors were hereditary, but…”

Christine laughs. “He has more courage than I do – I supposed you would tell me at some point what was bothering you.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“You have always been a man of passion, but I…we all…sensed you were missing something – something none of us could give you. Gustave, being so like you, suspected what it was…music. You know how unbelievably cranky he becomes when he cannot play.”

“I am not certain going back to something I abandoned is the answer.”

“Perhaps not, but you will not know until you experiment. The season is over, everything is being handled. Think of it as priming the pump,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “You must finish this song for me, however. That is one thing I must insist upon.”

“I shall – hearing you sing just now…”

The sound of rain drops on the skylights draws their eyes – the sky has blackened, the clouds ever deepening shades of gray, streaks of lightening flash followed by clashes of thunder – a vibrant timpani concerto.

“It appears we shall be confined here for a while – the towncar is at the hotel.”

Her gaze travels to their room, their private space before moving to the Bay Ridge house.

Erik’s eyes track hers. “You are a vixen as well as being a wise and wonderful woman.”

“I forgot how wonderful it is to be with you alone – we must come back here more often,” she says, rising from the bench, holding out a hand to him. “The perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon.”

Standing up, he sweeps her into his arms. “Thank you for seeking me out.”

“It would seem to be my role in life…one I accept with pleasure.”

“I shall try to do better.”

“Just be yourself, my husband, you do not have to perform for me.”

“My muse.”

“My maestro.”


	2. In All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine ruminates on how her life has changed since marrying Erik and how some things need reconsideration.

_Wishing you were_

_Somehow here again_

_Wishing you were_

_Somehow near_

_Sometimes it seemed_

_If I just dreamed_

_Somehow you would_

_Be here._

The words dance in her head. So much meaning in so few phrases.

The idea of working on a new opera with Erik fills her with a joy last felt at the birth of Joshua. Creation of a new life – that is what a new child of a different sort would be for both of them – this one not needing nappies or midnight feedings.

A spasm of guilt grips her heart – but just for a moment. As beloved as her children are to her – the entire family a blessing she only dreamed about when travelling Europe with Pappa – making music with Erik – just the two of them – excites her as nothing has in years.

And Pappa – Erik writing a song in homage to the love she felt for him. His music…her stories about how father and daughter only had one another. Tales of the many nights she looked with longing at images moving about their lives through lighted windows in small houses along the roads they traveled. Nights spent, when they could afford the fees, at hostels and lodges, were sources of contentment for her for the vibrant energy of other people for a short time, even if they were strangers. Yes, a song about the memories. A song about the solitary life with him she most remembered and loved and missed so deeply when he died.

Even now, too many people and too much society left her uncomfortable. Even the little breakfast party arranged by Erik today found her anxious. Most mornings, she preferred to take her meal with him or alone, the current baby nursed and napping, allowing her time alone, unencumbered by the necessities of this new life.

Lying here, next to her husband, listening to his quiet breathing as he sleeps – the thunder and lightning passed, heavy drops of rain still beat against the skylights, comfort her as they lull Erik to much needed rest. Dear man – hidden beneath the cloak of rejection and anger for so many years, now always fretting about being the perfect father, boss, healer, husband and lover – the quiet of the moment is so rare, she wonders if he ever gives thought to his own needs anymore.

Today. Perhaps this day, coming here to the Eyrie was in response to a deep yearning for the past – when his music was his entire life. Erik’s admission and honesty released a tension within her she was not completely aware she held.

Their lovemaking was both tender and passionate – so in tune to one another – had always been so. Each touch brought them closer – each need fulfilled without direction. They truly _knew_ one another in the Biblical sense. Before their love became physical, they were one with music, later with the stories of their lives, simple times when they simply sat reading.

There was a moment when she read the lyrics of Point of No Return she did wonder – _how long should we two wait before we’re one?_ The idea was quickly put from her mind. She wonders now if they would have come together had Raoul never appeared at the opera house? Would Erik have simply continued to be only a voice and tutor? What a foolish girl she was – believing him to be an angel. But, she wanted an angel – _her father promised her. Her father promised her._

She recalls the days when he was still her angel – not a man – the Opera Ghost – a phantom. M. Gaston Leroux certainly titled his novel aptly. Were anyone to have asked her, however, after all was said and done, looking backwards, she would have called the story Angel of Music.

With that title, the mystery, as it was supposed to be, would not have piqued the imagination of the public as it did. As it still does, if the periodicals she sees coming from the continent are any indication. Every so often, Erik is wrong about some piece of writing or art having or not having value – this was one of them. After a quick perusal of the book, he relegated it to the bookcase containing tomes considered to be trash or second-rate – not worth the time for a complete reading, much less a second or third. Certainly not on par with M. Victor Hugo or M. Charles Dickens. Those were stories to be read over and over – shared with one’s children and discussed with friends over wine and cheese after dinner.

If her conversations with Darius about psychology held any truth, Erik was denying the reality that the story of a reclusive, musical genius living under an opera house who kidnaps a young soprano was likely to be of lasting interest to an international public. How someone who looked as he did – or as he was portrayed – could be a romantic figure.

That knowledge early on might have altered his entire life.

Raoul’s return three years prior forced Erik to revisit the book – for, after all, the story was his – theirs – theirs and Raoul’s. Although not written as a love story – she, the heroine, was destined to be with the less than apt vicomte – if only for his beauty and chivalrous, if bungled attempts to save her from her tutor - the grossly deformed, but brilliant and somewhat unbalanced man known as the Phantom of the Opera. It was a horror story of sorts – the man who was known as Erik only becoming known to be human when he kidnapped the damsel Christine – loathe to have her ruin her life with the brash, but foolish Vicomte de Chagny.

Those of their friends who knew the story more intimately saw Raoul’s fingerprints all over the book – along with his prejudices and hatred of the man who was now married to Christine and father to their five children, three of whom were borne by her. The unvarnished disbelief at the nature of their life was almost comical.

Most troubling and annoying was the use of their real names – encouraged, perhaps, by Raoul’s desire to be recognized as the man who rid the Palais Garnier of the opera ghost, rescued said damsel in distress and, after a humiliating near death, was allowed to leave with her to travel to the North. Perhaps out of a quirky sense of justice and, a possible dislike for the young nobleman, Leroux cheated Raoul of any real heroism in the way the character was written. For all his flaws, and there were many, Erik was redeemed and was the actual, if odd hero of the piece.

To that point, Raoul opted to stay in New York, rather than return to Paris. Whatever must have Phillippe said and done at his brother’s deception? For all his own philandering, Phillippe never allowed his private dalliances to mar the de Chagny name. Whatever Raoul’s intentions, his actions never failed to upset his older brother and bring shame to a proud name.

For her part, continuing to sing as Christine Daae, once the book was released, was impossible. Even if her prior success was an issue, after one interview with Oscar Hammerstein, following her performance at Phantasma, she found her earlier renown to be less than other more currently popular divas. She was little more than a novelty. A short-lived career, if it could be called such, as Prima Donna of the Opera Poplulaire, followed by ten years of charity events arranged by a husband in a perpetual state of debt from gambling. Hammerstein was barely willing to employ her as an alternate performer.

More interest was directed towards Meg performing under his brother’s banner. Regardless, some memories were long and the name Daae was now known to people more as a fictional character than a living breathing woman.

At Erik’s suggestion, performing as Christine Gustafson, she contents herself with singing with Rudolph’s orchestra during the off season. During the summer, she performs one set of three songs a nightly – generally more modern songs, although Erik likes to add well-known arias to her repertoire, allowing her coloratura to soar for the audience but mainly to satisfy what he knows her inner needs to be.

Other than _Love Never Dies_ , however, his own creations are absent. Their time rehearsing is limited – normal life takes over and everything operates on a schedule. Routine was comforting to some extent. Each day having purpose – any surprises less than earth-shattering and most incidents handled – be it a broken arm, when Henry jumped from the bench on the Ferris wheel before it completely stopped or a sudden summer shower ruining some of the displays placed outside the attractions – with little fuss. Minor crises.

Conversations would ensue about creating a new opera – something audiences who favored the entertainment at Coney Island over that of the Metropolitan Opera would accept – but were never taken any further. The publication of the book limited their freedom if for no other reason than it exists. A vague fear of discovery lurks in the back of their minds. Neither wants to take the chance that Erik’s past might be discovered and revealed.

Nadir assures them repeatedly there were no criminal charges to be concerned about – the Phantom of the Opera dead is worth more to the Parisians than a real man who now runs an amusement park in America. Still, no one wants curious visitors – more interested in seeking out Mr. Y and his soprano wife than enjoying the park everyone works so hard to maintain. For three years they walked on eggshells – concentrating on the park as a place of amusement, not one of art, even in a small measure.

Christine’s awareness of Erik’s frustration with the failure to bring opera to the park is always present. However, this afternoon in the Eyrie – once their favorite escape from the everyday life at the amusement park, dis she realize just how deeply affected he is by the lack of music in his life. His own music and the music they created together.

A reassessment of how they are living must be made. The metaphorical cloud hovering over their heads all this time must move on, just as the storm outside will subside.

So many years were shed that rainy afternoon – they were back in Paris – fevered with their passion for one another – blocked in those days by both their fears – driving Erik to America and Christine back to Raoul. Erik’s expression of his pain fractured the wall between him and his music…and hers.

A shift in his breathing and a fluttering of his eyelids announce his return from sleep to the everyday world they live in. “Where are we?” he mutters. Not entirely willing to return from a dreamless sleep.

“The Eyrie.”

“I should have known by the sound of the rain and the waves against the shore,” he says, “One does not hear the rain at Bay Ridge with such force, although the waves lapping against the bulwark do provide some of the same hypnotic effect, reminiscent of the old lake, actually.”

“Do you sometimes wish you were still there – under the opera house?”

“Never.” Turning to her, eyes wide open, he says, “Why would you think I might want that?”

“ _I_ sometimes wish we could be back there. It is only now I can appreciate what a special time those days were.”

Lifting himself up on his elbow, smoothing the curls from her face. “How so?”

“Time had no meaning then – there was no day or night – only the two of us.”

“I am surprised you remember me so kindly. I should think you would be revolted by those memories.”

“Not at all – even then,” she says, stroking his ruined cheek. “Those times were much like my days with Pappa – just the two of us – making music, enjoying our own company.”

“I had no idea.”

“You still have no idea.” Her hand slides to his bare shoulder, pulling him toward her. “The best difference is you are my husband – with the special advantages of that relationship.”

Situating himself closer to her, he cups her breasts, no longer firm thanks to years of nursing babies, lying flaccid on her chest. Leaning down, he presses them together, kissing and suckling each nipple in turn.

“I love how you toy with me,” she giggles, reaching her arms above her head, stretching her body to full length. “Poor dears, they are no longer saucy, puckering for your kiss.”

“You are the saucy one speaking of puckering nipples,” Erik laughs, lifting himself up to gaze into her eyes. “You seem different – feisty, yet miffed – what has happened during the time I drifted off and now?”

“Besides seeing my floppy bosoms and baby tummy in daylight?”

“That again? You are a goddess – always and ever – to me,” he says, ghosting his long fingers from her neck to her stomach where he linger to caress the rippled flesh.

“When you were gone this morning, I was concerned…then when I came here, you were not pleased.”

“You thought I was upset with you?”

She nods, rolling on her side, throwing a leg over his hips, nuzzling her head under his chin.

“I could never be upset with you.”

“Bored, maybe?”

“No, certainly not bored – perhaps what you believe to be too much happiness could be called boredom – that is not what I would call it – contentment, perhaps. Where you and the children are concerned, I feel nothing but abject bliss.”

Lifting her lips to his to quiet his words, she kisses him, licking and nipping the thickened area.

Hissing, he says, “You know my weaknesses.”

Christine laughs lightly. “And you mine.” When they first kissed, she found his mouth both abhorrent and strangely seductive – as most things are in the dark areas of our souls. Not necessarily bad or wrong, simply inappropriate for the world outside.

The kiss, then kisses, were more than anything she experienced with Raoul. It was as if all of Erik was contained in the moments when their lips met – a gesture meant to be one of compassion on her part only to become something more – indefinable at the time…but more, much more than compassion. Whatever stirred in her during those moments still lives – more vibrant now than ever.

“When your lips touch me…my lips, my breasts…my private place…cunt...”

“Pucker? Cunt? More sauce from my lady?” His lone eyebrow quirks, the glimmer of a smile on the misshapen lips.

Hearing him say those words with his most seductive voice – thinking of his mouth and tongue exploring her…there…that word – has her blush. “I do not know what has come over me with these words”

“Have no worries, my love, I shall address your need post haste.” He murmurs, moving to settle himself between legs she opens to him. His eyes hold hers, momentarily, before he shifts his burning gaze to the chestnut curls guarding the passage to her private place. With gentle pressure, he pries her knees farther apart, exposing the soft flesh barely hidden now. Gliding his fingers against the moistened lips of her vulva, separating the labia allowing him to penetrate her. Slowly stroking, his eyes return to hers. “Is this what you want?’ His eyes drop to his engorged penis.

There is something dark in his eyes – did she bring this about with her words? Despite a very active sexual life, her sense of him today is stronger than ever before. So much of both of them are present she feels consumed and an integral part of him – no longer a separate individual. “Yes…no.”

“No?” Without interrupting his fondling, he touches his other hand to his mouth, he asks, “This? Do you want this?”

When he told her of his mother – not allowing him to kiss her – even the skirt of her dress – she understood how much of his passion was focused on his mouth. To this day, he was extremely sensitive and those who received his kisses received all his love.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Kiss me…there.” Spreading her legs wider, she places her hands under her knees, lifting them, offering herself to him.

“As you wish.” Erik first presses his mouth to her, his tongue seeking her inner heat, darting in and out, flicking her clit.

Soft moans grow louder as her body responds in rhythm with his attentions. When he draws the pearl of her pleasure between his lips, sucking gently on the bud her hip begin to buckle, her crisis near.

“Now – you. Inside. All of you. Inside of me.”

Shifting swiftly to his knees, his member hard and throbbing, he enters her completely. Christine wraps her legs around his waist, arms clutching him to her breast. With but a few deep strokes, he joins in her…now their climax – together as one.

The intensity of this coupling is not lost on Christine – the verbal interplay was new to both of them. This is the change she hoped for. Erik lies on top of her, neither of them wanting to part. Christine cradles his head against hers. “I love you. I want your music to be about our love.”

“Until you returned to my life…became my life, living was a raging hell – if not physically, as when I was younger – then in my mind. If our early life together was rawer, then it was the unhealed part of me. There was a being inside of me wanting to ravish as well as love. I knew nothing else.”

“That music came from your pain.”

Rolling off of her, he pulls the duvet over them. “And now there is no pain.”

“The book reminded you of those times and inspired you – so that must be a good thing – no?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he says. “I just do not want to live in that place again. If there is to be music, it cannot come from that time.”

“Except my father’s song – the aria…it is also a song about you…the lines you showed me, repeat in my mind are as much about you as my father.”

“But that is about your pain…your loss…are you sure?”

“I want to sing your music.”

“Then you shall.” Taking her face in his hands, he says, “Whatever you wish…in all things.”


	3. The Lot of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with Raoul and Meg and some of the back story from the three years between Times of Reckoning and New Horizons. What would the world of Erik and Christine (as well as Nadir and Adele) be without Raoul and Meg mucking about?

“Damnation!” Erik curses at the sound of the telephone ringing as he stalks from the bedroom to his desk in the Eyrie.

Christine continues to fasten the bodice of her dress as she follows him. “Who do you suppose it is?”

“Adele. Two short rings…pause…two short ring. She is the only one who knows I am here.”

“It must be important, then, if you told her not to bother you – remember, she also knows I am here.” With a shrug, she blushes, the frowns at the thought of Adele knowing or suspecting what they have been engaged in for the past several hours.

Despite their years of marriage, Christine continues to feel a shyness about others being aware, even in a small way, of her physical relationship with Erik. The pink of her blush deepens as she recalls the previous few hours where in the arms of her husband her brazen lust makes a lie of the prim façade she dons in public.

The seventeen years since she was under the direction of Madame Giry has not lessened the sense of domination the dance mistress still holds over her – even with the past six being married to Erik and, as his wife, being her business partner. The idea that Adele even suspects the level of their passion embarrasses her.

It is not as if Adele hovers over her, if anything, she tends to stay out of Christine’s way – allowing Rudolph to deal with her musical numbers. Still, she can feel the older woman watching, perhaps judging – or maybe it is just her imagination or a sense of guilt. However civil everyone tried to be during the early days of her arrival at Phantasma – the feelings Meg had for Erik – and the actions she took after his rejection – lurked in the background, tainting the air they all breathed.

Since Meg left the show – a surprise to everyone, after what was believed to be a victory over his attempts at blackmail – to take up with Raoul, Adele pressed for a closer relationship with her. Somehow not having Meg as a constant symbol of her past manipulations, created this need to be close to a daughter figure, however, awkward it might be for both of them.

The bonding Adele appears to desire appeals to Nadir’s obvious love and approval for Christine. If Erik beams endlessly when Christine is present, the daroga is only slightly less aglow with her effect on Erik. Their marriage is easy and comfortable…and passionate. The irritant of Meg’s minor barbs, and more importantly, the strange hold she had over Gustave are gone.

Despite her respect and deep gratitude for the support the ballet mistress gave her after her father died – Christine never quite trusted the woman. The incident on the pier is never far from her mind – but more importantly, the knowledge that the ten years between the events at the Palais Garnier and Christine’s reunion with Erik need never have happened. Wasted time when they could have been together – raising their son.

_“Why did you leave? I would have followed you anywhere?”_

_“Adele said it would be selfish of me – what sort of life would it be for you?_

_“That should have been my choice – not hers, not yours...mine. I loved you.”_

“The color on your cheeks suits you – I suppose it could be worse – she might have called half an hour ago – in which case the wrinkles in your brow might make sense,” he chuckles, as he picks up the handset, his voice shifting from flirtatious to flat. “What is it, Adele? I thought I asked to be left alone.”

The dark-haired woman, usually self-possessed and fierce, holds onto the edge of the table in the infirmary so tightly the knuckles of her fingers are white from the pressure. Strands of wet hair cling to her cheeks, rain water, tinged red, drips on the white linoleum from her black gabardine dress. “There has been an accident…Raoul and Meg – she is bleeding…unconscious. We are in the infirmary…come quickly.”

Hanging up the phone, she turns her attention back to the waiting area where Nadir and Darius are pushing a gurney through the wide expanse to one of the two examination rooms. “Did you reach him?” Nadir asks.

She gives a curt nod in response. “He is calling Gangle and Dr. Morrisey. He and Christine will be here shortly.”

“Christine?” Darius asks.

“She has been with him all afternoon.”

“Pity they had to be disturbed,” Nadir grunts. “Of course, it would be over these two.”

“Stop it,” Adele snaps. “For just once, stop the sniping about Meg.”

His green eyes soften. So different from his Mitra with her calm and gentle ways – yet, his love for this outwardly hard French woman was just as strong. As much as Mitra was compliant and easy to be with, Adele challenged him almost every waking hour. As he…they aged, he found their natural bickering kept his mind fresh and young.

Meg is and always will be a sticking point – he wishes he could be more tolerant of her, but the woman refuses to take responsibility for the havoc she raises. He will never forget how she terrorized Gustave…how he almost died at her hand…how, by some miracle he was there to save the boy.

Now, however, was not the time to be stubborn, Meg was in serious condition and Adele was on the verge of breaking down in her fear and guilt. “You are right – my apologies to both of you,” he says turning to Darius.

“At some point one has to accept reality – she has been absent from my life for some time now.” The younger man shrugs. “Let us get the vicomte into the examination room.”

Raoul looks up at Nadir, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “I am alive?”

“Apparently, you are flapping your jaws.”

“Meg?”

“We will not know until a doctor sees her – she is unconscious, Yasmine is tending to her until the doctor can get here,” Darius tells him.

“It was an accident, a puddle, I could not stop.”

“Save the story for someone who cares,” Nadir says. “Your breath is foul with whiskey, the entire automobile is saturated with the stuff.”

Raoul struggles to push himself up onto his elbows. “One drink, I had one drink. The bottle must have broken in the crash.”

Nadir pushes him back down. “Stay still or you will fall off this contraption.”

“What about Meg – was she drinking, too?” Darius asks, guiding the table through the door of the exam room Adele holds open for them.

“Was she? Drinking?” She asks, taking a step toward him.

Raoul squints at her, waving her away. “Why would you care – you threw her out…all of you cast her aside years ago.”

“Only because you would not leave her alone,” Adele cries, beating on his chest with a fist. “Why would you not leave her alone?”

Nadir leaves the gurney, taking hold of his wife’s slim body. Dropping her cane, she collapses in his arms. “He has killed her.”

“You vile woman – you are the one who killed…no…she cannot be dead,” Raoul cries.

“Calm down, both of you,” Darius says. “She is alive – everything will be done to care for her. In the meantime, you need to be still. You might be injured and arguing is not the best way to deal with any sort of wound or fracture.”

“You are calm and cool, Doctor Perfect,” Raoul spits. “You could not help her when she was your wife.”

“Would you rather I express my true feelings toward you? That could be arranged.” Darius holds up his artificial hand. “This addition to my arm has come in handy on several occasions as a weapon.”

Raoul opens his mouth in a retort, thinks better of it, turning his head away. “Just let me get up and out of these wet clothes,” he mumbles. “I think I can manage without any care you might wish to give me.” Struggling to rise again, the table begins to roll and Raoul begins to fall off.

Darius rushes to catch him, helping him to stand. “Do you think you can walk since you cannot be trusted to stay still on the cart?”

Raoul pushes him away, but stumbles, falling to his knees.

“Will you allow me to help you now, since you have proved to be unable to stand on your own…much less walk?”

Raoul nods. As Darius puts an arm around him, Raoul lifts his arm onto Darius’ shoulder. As they begin the trek into the exam room, he groans and stumbles. “My ankle.”

“See if you can hop on the other foot, I will brace you.”

Struggling to maintain her own balance, Adele pulls away from the daroga. “Nadir, help Darius,” she says, “I am fine, just hand me my cane, then get him out of my sight.”

“You are sure?” He makes certain Adele is standing safely.

Adele nods. “I want to be with Meg. Yasmine likely needs some help with her. Erik and Christine will be here soon – Gangle as well, he was at the theater.”

“Very well, hold onto the gurney while I get your staff.” Once he hands it to her, he watches as she trudges to the closed door of examining room number one. The damage to her hips and feet challenge her balance with every step. Watching her struggle hurts him deeply, but she refuses to bow to the pain.

After opening the door, she turns back to give a grim smile before entering the room.

Nadir places Raoul’s free arm over his shoulder. “Let us get you out of these wet clothes and into bed.”

“What happened?” Christine asks as Erik presses down on the phone box.

Raising a finger to stop her questions, he speaks into the receiver. “I need you to call two people. When we finish, find Gangle and have him meet with Madame Giry at the infirmary. First, however, call Dr. Morrisey and tell him there has been an automobile accident, one person badly injured. We would appreciate his attendance at the infirmary immediately, if possible. Now call Gangle. Thank you.” Putting down the receiver, he says, “Raoul and Meg were in some sort of accident – it seems Meg has been seriously injured.”

“Raoul?”

“She did not say, but I suspect he is fine – fool was probably drunk – one of the advantages of having alcohol in the system, when falling or being attacked, the body just goes limp.”

Picking up her cape and bonnet from the sofa, she puts them on as she follows Erik to the door. “Did she say if anyone was there with her?”

“No, but I suspect Nadir is present at minimum – hopefully Darius and Yasmine – I think this is one of his therapy days.” He removes his own cloak and fedora from the hooks on the wall and ushers her out. “Why now?”

“Why ever?” Christine says, attempting a cheerless laugh. “Well, I do hope it is nothing truly serious and they can both disappear in the same way they left the last time.”

“I am sorry,” Erik says.

“Why – you have done nothing…except for being an incredibly fascinating man who inspired a popular book?” This time her laugh is real. Taking his arm, she presses her head against his shoulder as they stand in the elevator taking them to the ground floor. “I feel sorry for Meg – has he completely gone through her shares of Phantasma?”

Erik shakes his head. “No, Adele and I set up a contingency fund for her when she left – still, it has not taken him long to lay waste to a small fortune.”

“I know I never asked, but, the truth is, I was happy both of them were gone. Another case of my not facing reality…”

There was something self-destructive about Meg tossing everything in her life aside based on a vague promise Raoul made to get her on Broadway. Her initial shunning of the vicomte suggested she was prepared to get her life moving forward – still the lead of the Phantasma theatre, even if the alternate performed as often, if not more than she. Darius was a faithful husband. There was wealth and a greater acceptance by the family. The drug usage was being addressed and for a few weeks, Meg seemed almost happy.

“I doubt anyone misses her, except her mother. My interest was in fulfilling a business contract – which she earned.”

“The shows in Manhattan?”

“Those never happened – the Hammersteins were not interested – my sources say she does burlesque in smaller theaters with some company that books her and other acts.”

“Maybe this is a good thing then – her coming back here.”

“I doubt it, but we shall see.” Erik opens the metal gate of the lift and guides Christine out, locking the gate behind them. “I hope things look worse than they are – when there is blood involved, it is often difficult to know…and the rain.” Grabbing a large umbrella from a pot holding several sitting next to the exit, he opens it for them and they step out into what is now a light drizzle.

“Go see to Meg,” Nadir says to Darius. “I can handle this from here.” Pulling a chair from next to the bed, he tells Raoul to “Sit down, get your clothes off while I look for something you can put on. Then I can help you finish undressing and get you into bed.”

Raoul nods, flopping onto the wooden chair and using his feet, toes off his shoes and the sock covering the uninjured foot.

Darius observes him for a moment, assured the vicomte will not fall off the chair. “I hope the medical people arrive shortly. With the park closed for the fall, no one was expecting we would need a physician. You are a true menace, sir. Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?” Not waiting for an answer, he leaves the room.

“So, Raoul, what brings you to Brooklyn? We know Columbia Amusement recently let you go. The Bronx – you were recently in the Bronx, now that I think of it.”

“She quit,” he says. “What are you doing, spying on us?”

“Of course. You are peddling the flesh of my wife’s daughter in the name of _art_ , did you think your activities would go unobserved?” Pulling out a few union suits from a drawer, he holds them up, taking Raoul’s measure, tosses one on the bed and return the others to the drawer. “I think this should work – clean and warm. Now let me help you out of the wet clothes – would not wish you to contract a cold or pneumonia.”

Once his clothes are stripped off and replaced by the long underwear, Nadir helps Raoul into the bed and examine his ankle.

“Damn, be careful.”

“Sorry. It appears to be only a sprain, but I think it best if someone with more skilled fingers check for broken bones,” he says, tucking the foot under the blankets. “Good thing you were anesthetized when the wreck happened – who knows what might have broken.”

“I had one drink,” Raoul insists. “Meg was driving me crazy crying and complaining about pain. I just had to block out her voice.”

“In the rain, in a vehicle. You are lucky you are both alive,” Nadir says, going through the medicine cabinet. Pulling out a small bottle, he pours two pills into his hand. Filling a glass with water from a pitcher, he carries both over to the bed, handing the pills and glass to Raoul. “Take these – aspirin – they will help with the pain.”

Raoul follows his instructions. Putting the glass onto the table next to the bed, he falls back onto the pillows, he says, “I never meant to hurt her – today or ever.”

“You never mean to hurt anyone – always the guiltless innocent,” Nadir says, sitting down in the chair, crossing his legs. “How old are you now? Thirty-eight…nine?”

“Nine – I am thirty-nine…just.”

“Still on an allowance?” Nadir smirks.

“You seem to know everything – you tell me.”

“There _is_ one thing I do not know,” Nadir says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, chin on folded hands.

“What do you not know? You are worse than my insufferable brother,” Raoul snaps, pounding his head against the pillows. “These pills are not working. Do you have anything stronger?”

“I do, but until the doctor gets here, the aspirin will have to do. I hoped the aspirin would take the edge off, but I suspect you depend something stronger to get through the day.”

“Very funny. I hate to disappoint you, but not true.”

“Is that so – today is an aberration? If memory serves…”

“Your memory is fine, simply not current with the times.”

“Indeed? Well then, bravo.” The daroga sits back in the chair, crossing his legs again. “So.”

“What? So? What? What is it you want to know?”

“Why were you bringing Meg here and why was she crying and complaining about being in pain?” Nadir asks calmly. “It would help for us to know since she is unconscious and cannot speak for herself.”

“Right,” Raoul rubs his forehead. “She is…was…I am not sure…with child.” Turning his head away from the piercing eyes of the former sheriff. “Almost seventeen years and all of a sudden I am to be a father. What a farce.”

Nadir closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Congratulations are in order, in that case.” So the two spoiled brats were expecting – what sort of comedic play are these two living in? He and Adele will be raising a child when they should be considering retiring or, at the very least, slowing down – enjoying the money they have been putting away.

“Thank you. I suppose that is the correct response.” Tears form in the clear blue eyes. “She was so excited – she wanted to tell her mother. I did not want to drive in the rain, but she insisted.”

Of course she did. “What happened?”

“She started to cry, holding onto her stomach. Everything is exaggerated with her – dramatic…you understand…you know her. _He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera.”_ His voice rough. She would sing that foolish bit of nonsense to me when she wanted to get under my skin – particularly those days when she received her allowance.”

“Not what you expected when you charmed her away from us, hmm?”

“I did not realize how damaged she was.”

“Trying to kill your s…Gustave did not convince you?” Nadir says, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable. “You might have asked – made some attempt to become one with us instead of the constant threats to reveal Erik’s identity.”

“No one gave a damn about me.”

“But we loved Meg – for her we would have at least tried – even Erik,” Nadir says. Getting up, he takes Raoul’s glass to pour him another glass of water. “Is she still taking the drugs?”

Raoul shakes his head. “She stopped when she believed she was going to have a baby. It was very hard on her…both of us – crying for hours on end, pacing, sweating, drinking sugar water – god, the sugar water – gulping down glass after glass, then vomiting. I could hardly bear to be in the room with her. But it was a good thing. I kept telling myself it was a good thing. Stopping the drugs was good for all of us – but she went nearly mad in the process. There are still moments when I cannot tell what is real and what is not.”

“The accident?”

“She grabbed my arm – I do not know why. There was a puddle, a rut. I lost control of the steering wheel for a moment, and ran into the pole…where you found us. At least we were in front of the hotel, not on the road.”

“Why today?”

“It is her birthday.”

Nadir sighs and gets to his feet. “I need to advise Adele and Yasmine – she has worked with pregnant women.”

“Let me know what happens – take care of her – I will be fine.”

“I shall return as soon as I can tell you something.” Calling over his shoulder, as he leaves the room, Nadir says, “I will send Dr. Gangle in when he arrives.”

“Thank you.”

“What can I do to help?” Adele whispers to Yasmine, as she closes the door to the examination room. Unbuttoning the jacket of her day suit, still wet from the rain, she removes it to hang on the coat rack.

The young nurse smiles at the older woman. “I am happy you are here. We need to remove all her clothing, I was able to deal with some, but,” swinging an arm to indicate she has removed Meg’s cape and bodice, but her skirt and underwear were still in place, she says, “I need some help.”

Adele rolls up the sleeves of her white blouse and joins Yasmine at the bed where Meg lies. “The blood was from her head?”

“There were two wounds – one on her forehead,” the young Persian woman explains, “this wound produced all the bleeding – superficial, but those are always the bloodiest. There is another just beneath the occipital lobe. Had she been wearing her hair pinned up, there would have been no problem, but with it tied at her neck…she must have hit something in the car. The bleeding, such as it was, was absorbed by her hair.”

Picking up her treatment tray, she removes it to the cabinet holding the medical supplies and a small sink. “I cleaned and stitched both wounds, applied packing and bandaging. There is an ice bag under her head – I am concerned about swelling. This is likely the reason she is not conscious, which is not good. I have lifted her head in case she vomits – one never knows with a head injury.”

“You have done well, as always, we are so lucky to have you,” Adele sighs deeply. “Let us get the rest of these wet things off of her.”

Repeating actions mimicking Nadir’s with Raoul, Adele finds clean drawers and a soft woolen gown for her daughter. The two women work quickly to remove Meg’s garments replacing them with the dry nightclothes.

“No other bleeding,” Yasmine says. “Nothing appears to be broken.”

“Maman?” Meg groans. “Is that you?”

Adele grips her daughter’s hand, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Yes, Marguerite, I am here.”

Meg’s eyes blink open, the beginning of a smile turns into a frown, her brow furrows. “Why is it so dark in here, I can hardly see you.”

Adele darts a look at Yasmine.

The girl shakes her head at the older woman and responds, “You were in an accident Meg. You bumped your head, so we thought it best to darken the room. The light might hurt your eyes.”

“Who is that?”

“It is Yasmine, Meg. Darius and I were here working, he is with Raoul.”

“Darius is here?”

“He will be here to see you shortly,” Adele says, “He and Nadir are attending to Raoul. Do you recall what happened?”

“I saw something in the road – or thought I did – and grabbed Raoul’s arm,” she says, “Is he all right? He was annoyed about coming here in the rain.”

“A sprained ankle,” Adele brushes off the question. “Why are you here? Now.”

Meg squints, trying to see Yasmine, who has stepped away from the bed, busying herself with folding Meg’s clothing and putting away the bandaging supplies. “Put on the lights so I can see you. I hear you puttering around over there. What are you doing?”

“Do not concern yourself about the lighting, it is better for your eyes to rest,” Adele says.

“Because she says so, the good little nurse?” Meg spits out. “Little whore.”

“Stop it,” Adele says. “This is neither the time nor place to open that issue again.”

“Oh, really. She seduces my husband and I am the one who is at fault?”

“I shall leave now, Madame Giry,” Yasmine says, walking to the door. “It would perhaps be best for Meg were I out of her presence.”

“One moment,” Adele says, turning to Meg. “This battle was waged and settled, you made your choice. You have been injured and the last thing you need is to reopen an old wound. Be still, I need to say something to Yasmine and I will then stay here next to you for as long as you wish.”

Yasmine waits at the door, her hands folded in front of her, head down.

“Do you think the blindness is permanent?” Adele asks, looking back at Meg, who has closed her eyes again, shifting her body to settle more comfortably in the bed.

Yasmine shrugs. “If the swelling goes down and takes pressure off the occipital nerve, she should be fine. I do not know. She needs to remain calm, however, so it is best I leave now. You might want to discover what type of medication she is taking...if any.”

Adele nods. “Thank you.”

Yasmine bows slightly and leaves.

“Maman,” Meg cries. “Why am I not able to see? I close my eyes and open them and there is no difference.”

Adele moves as quickly as she can to Meg’s side. “You hit the back of your head – there is some swelling. Everything will be fine when the swelling goes down. Just rest now. I am here with you. The doctors will be here soon.”

“Soon. Good. So sleepy,” Meg whispers.

“Try to stay awake,” Adele urges her.

“I am pregnant, Maman. I did not lose the baby did I?’

“Pregnant? Are you sure?”

“Mmmmm. Why we came today. Wanted to surprise you – a baby I can keep. My birthday. ”

“Oh my darling girl, I forgot, you have been gone,” Adele says, tears filling her eyes. “All will be well. There is no indication that the baby has been harmed.”

“Good. Had cramps. Grabbed Raoul. So tired.”

“The doctor will be here soon,” Adele says. “He will be better able to determine your condition in all these matters. Talk to me some more, I have missed you.”

“Stopped taking pills, Maman,” Meg says, her eyes closing. “Did not want to hurt baby.”

“I am happy for that,” Adele says. She looks at the door, determinedly shut. Dear God, please let someone come. She cannot help but smile when Erik pushes the door open, Christine and Darius close behind.

“Thank You,” Adele murmurs, raising her eyes to the heavens. To Erik, she says, “She cannot see, keeps drifting off.”

“Yasmine told us about the head injuries and blindness,” Erik says as he moves quickly to the bed, removing a black leather case from his suit pocket. Opening the case, he puts it down on the table next to the bed. “Darius, could you get me some alcohol from the cupboard – I need to sterilize my needles. Christine, help Adele to another chair – I shall need room to work.”

“Come, Adele – Erik will take care of her.” Christine takes Adele by the arm, helping her to a pair of chairs placed against the wall on the other side of the room. She takes the seat next to her, putting an arm around the older woman.

Darius hands Erik a small beaker of alcohol with a folded cotton cloth. After which he raises the head of the bed and removes the ice pack from behind Meg’s head. “Anything else?”

“Arnica, I think would help. Use the tincture already prepared, put several drops under her tongue. You might take some to Raoul as well for his ankle – it will address the shock…any pain and swelling.”

“She is pregnant,” Adele says, holding tightly to Christine’s hand.

“Pregnant?” Christine exclaims. “By Raoul?”

“I would assume so,” Adele looks at Darius, whose eyes flash as they meet hers, before returning to preparing the homeopathic for Erik.

“It seems this god of yours has a sense of humor,” Erik says. “What about the drugs.”

“She stopped taking them.”

“A miracle. We must do our best to make sure everyone survives this accident – the lord has been very busy with the lot of us today.”


	4. A Different Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik, Raoul, Gustave and Gangle...

Roused from his doze, Raoul looks to his right, toward the sound wakening him. Disoriented and unsure of where he is, he feels a strong adrenalin rush…a rapid heartbeat. Touching his chest, he finds not the fine linen of his last dress shirt and silk cravat. Instead, his fingers brush against the soft, but unfamiliar wool of a union suit covering his body.

Struggling to pull himself to a sitting position, the pressure on his right foot sends a shooting pain up his leg forcing him to fall backwards, releasing a modest scream relative to the level of the injury – damaged, but not broken. The memory of the accident floods back and he becomes aware of the examination room he is relegated to – awaiting the doctor.

“Who is it?”

Gangle, garbed in work clothes strides into the room and flips on the overhead light. “Your favorite juggler.” His denim jeans are a bit too short for his long legs, giving him more the look of a farm hand than his actual roles of master of ceremonies and Phantasma physician.

When an injured guest arrives at the infirmary, his introduction always includes a comment about how inappropriate he appears for the task at hand, followed by a deep chuckle. The joke made in anticipation of the surprised looks he receives from people discovering he is the doctor who will be treating their injured ankle, or cut finger or more serious attack of dyspepsia brought on by eating too many hot dogs. Despite the freedom the performers and crew members experience at the amusement park – their life experiences still have them wary of the opinions of _normal people._

“Turn off the light, do you wish to blind me as well as see me crippled?” Raoul grumbles, throwing an arm over his face. “Juggler? Where is the doctor?”

“I am both – how fortunate for you.” Removing three balls from the bib of his coveralls, he tosses them in the air.”

“Well, I am not a child in need of a distraction,” Raoul growls. “This place is an insult to reality.”

“As it is intended, M. Vicomte. People come here to forget their lives – for a while, at least.” One by one the balls disappear. “Distractions gone,” Gangle says, brushing his hands. “Many of the people who pass through these rooms tend to be pleased to find something to take their minds off their injuries, but, no problem.” He nods to the tall young man who followed him into the exam room.

Covering his mouth to hide his grin, Gustave turns the light off and walks to the bed, turning on the pole lamp next to the bed. Making his way around the room, he switches on the light in the medicine cupboard and at the guest chairs. “Is that better?” he asks.

“Yes, it is. Thank you…” Raoul says, struggling to get a look at the young man speaking to him – standing at the other side of the room, still filled with shadows. Gangle stands right next to him, having made his way to the bed while Raoul was following Gustave with hooded eyes around the room. Who was this other man? “This place is as strange now as when I first saw it – jugglers are doctors, freaks are treated as normal people, a man with the face of a demon operates this place…”

“All those things and more, yet we survive and are happy – more that you can say, judging from the level of your distress.” Gangle admonishes the younger man. “You came here for something, disrupting our lives and work with your poor driving skills – we did not seek you out.”

Raoul’s eyes flash and are met with a calm gaze, settling his own mood. “No, you did not. I am forgetting my manners…I apologize,” he mumbles. “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me…us.”

“Nadir and Darius have both advised me you have a sprained ankle, but I want to be certain nothing is broken,” Gangle says, lifting the blanket covering Raoul’s feet. “I am going to take an X-Ray.” The foot has been elevated and is swollen compared to the left. The color a deep red, but already turning to the mixture of blue and black denoting a deep bruise. Holding his hand out to the young man, he says, “Let me have the Arnica and get the wheelchair.”

Gustave walks to the bed, handing the vial to Gregory, standing behind him, just out of Raoul’s eyesight, then retrieves the wheelchair from an adjacent room.

“The aspirin M. Kahn gave you did not help?” Gregory asks, removing the stopper from the tube.

Raoul shakes his head.

“This will – it is a homeopathic remedy for shock, bruising and pain.” Handing the tube to Raoul, he says, let it settle under your tongue for a few moments before swallowing. We are going to wheel you into that room – where we have the X-ray machine.”

“Is there nothing else you can give me?”

“Like what? We have morphine, if you like, but it has proved to be addictive, as is codeine. You, of all people, should know how damaging drugs can be,” the doctor says, his eyes glancing toward the wall separating the examination rooms. “Let us see how the Arnica works. We will check for broken bones and proceed accordingly, wrap it and put on some ice packs. That and time will often do the trick.”

“I will have to go to the kitchen for ice…or to the other room,” Gustave says. “This ice box is not functioning since the season ended.

“Let us get the X-Ray done, I need your help to get him in and out of bed. Then you can go to the kitchen – the situation next door is rather serious and if I am any judge, the room is full of people that your father will soon be asking to leave in no uncertain terms. Best not to rile him.”

“Gustave?” Raoul asks, an edge of disbelief in his voice. “I did not recognize you. Come into the light so I can see you. You are a man.”

“Nature does seem to work that way, Vicomte,” Gustave answers. “When one does not see another person for a number of years, particularly a child, a metamorphosis tends to take place. The caterpillar becomes a butterfly. In my case a boy became…is becoming a man.”

“You sound more like him every day – even the same arrogant tone,” Raoul laughs. “How I ever believed you were my child, I do not know.”

“You were not around enough to see the signs always visible to my mother, I suppose that was our good luck – we might have wound up on the street.”

“Why do you think I would have done that? I love your mother.”

“Loved would be the more appropriate tense, do you not think?” Gustave retorts. “You were quick enough to leave when you found out the truth. You never returned to see me – only to cause trouble for our family. To use the present tense as to your feelings is quite dishonest, would you not say?”

“Ask your father – he wrote that aria – _Love Never Dies_. Does the emotion only apply to him and your mother? I left because your mother sang that night – despite my plea she not do so. _My_ love was not what _she_ needed or wanted. This does not diminish my feelings for her…or you. Present tense.”

“Enough. Gustave. Vicomte.” Gangle says, pressing lightly against the bones of the foot and shin above the bruised area. Applying gentle pressure, he uses his thumb and fingers to gently examine the ankle itself.”

Raoul groans with every movement, but as he suspected himself, none of the bones are broken – the pain is not at that level.

“It does seem we dealing with a minor, if painful, injury,” Gangle determines, “but I would still feel better to have confirmation.”

The two men lift Raoul from the bed to the wheelchair, elevating his leg, and move him to the same room where Gustave found the wheelchair. “You can stay in the chair.” Gangle turns on the fluoroscope, a large tube supported by a metal pole, covered with a shield. The X-ray machine itself, resembling an over-sized ship’s wheel, sits on a long table. He holds a framed piece of painted glass up to Raoul’s ankle. As if by magic, completely in line with the aura of Phantasma, a picture of the ankle revealing the bones beneath the flesh and muscle comes in view. “As we thought. Good. No broken bones.”

“That is all?” Raoul says.

“Painless and very effective. Mr. Y wanted to be certain we had all the latest equipment here – this infirmary is as well-equipped as most hospitals, even though we do not have a need for most of it – still, as today, there was a need and this saves time.”

“I will help you return him to his bed, then fetch the ice,” Gustave says, adjusting the wheelchair, allowing Raoul to bend his leg.

“Are you studying medicine now?”

“No, but I am interested in everything that has to do with Phantasma,” Gustave replies. “Dr. Gangle needed assistance and I was here to help him.”

Raoul back in bed, Gregory says, “Go to the kitchen then, Gustave. I can take care of wrapping this myself.”

“Can I get you anything from the cupboard?”

Gangle shakes his head. “I can fetch what I need myself. The ice will be needed once I am finished with the wrapping.”

The boy nods and turns to leave.

“Gustave,” Raoul calls.

The young man halts, shoulders falling as he slowly turn around. “Yes?”

“Do you have any information about Meg?” He looks both to the boy and the master of ceremonies come doctor.

Gustave exchanges a look with Gangle, who replies, “I think it would be best if you hear any information about Miss Meg from Mr. Y and the doctor. He arrived just as we were coming to see you.”

“Nadir said he would let me know when he learned anything.”

“Well, there you have it then,” Gustave says, energized again, continuing on his way out the door, stopping short by Erik blocking his way. “Ah, here is Papa.”

Erik enters the room, smiling at his son, squeezing his shoulders as he pulls him into a rough embrace. “I am happy you are here to help.”

Gustave returns his father’s smile, flushing at the praise. “The x-ray was negative.”

“So we were able to use that machine – twice in one day,” Erik says. “I told you it would come in handy, Gregory. You can back me up now, if Madame Giry starts to complain again about the cost.”

“Yes, sir, you did. I do like having the ability to check for broken bones with all the accidents we have.” Gregory says. “Twice?”

“Meg is currently being X-rayed.”

“For what?” Raoul asks.

Gustave attempts to slip away from Erik’s grip on his shoulder, “Papa, I am going for ice.”

Erik grasps the boy’s shoulder again, halting his escape. “You are not interested?”

“The ice can wait,” Gangle says, “Stay. This might be of interest to you.”

Raoul flashes him an angry look.

“You will be well cared for, Vicomte,” Erik says. “A few minutes without an ice pack will not kill you – besides I think you could use some acupuncture. Gregory, could you set up a tray?”

“Alcohol for disinfecting?”

“Yes.” Taking the leather wallet from his pocket, he hands it to Gangle.

”He must always see to his own needs first,” Gustave mutters under his breath to his father.

Erik chuckles softly, his response, audible to no one but Gustave, “Thankfully none of us must deal with them on a regular basis, hmm?”

Gustave grins at his father – their heights almost matching – Erik still a shade taller, but not by much.

“Speak up – it is excessively rude to talk about someone behind his back when he is right in front of you.”

Erik and Gustave guffaw in unison. “Raoul, you made a joke.”

“If you say so – I was simply speaking the truth,” he grumbles. “Am I to spend the rest of my time here, only to be subject to your mockery?”

“Where would you prefer to be?” Eriks asks, “I can have you transported wherever you wish once you are bandaged. We might even have a set of crutches to assist you – your automobile is not fit to drive, however.”

Raoul shakes his head. “I have nowhere to go.” With a deep sigh, he lies back on the pillow, tears rim his blue eyes. “How is Meg?”

“Dr. Morrisey is caring for her. To answer your question, she is being X-rayed to see if there is a skull fracture,” Erik says. Sitting down next to Raoul’s bed, he folds his hands, fixing his gaze on Raoul until the younger man turns his head.

“What is it? What is wrong? Did she lose the baby?”

Erik rest his hand on Raoul’s arm. “You need to be calm.”

Raoul glances down at the long fingers, the touch firm, yet gentle is oddly comforting – so different from his memories, his nightmares. Looking into Erik’s eyes, the compassion he sees there is unexpected. “Tell me.”

“At the present time, she is unable to see much more than shadows – some movement, some light. The injury to the back of her head appears to have affected the occipital nerve. There is some swelling. We are taking the X-ray to determine if there are any fractures.

“There were two wounds – one on her forehead – which bled quite a bit – combined with the rain water, there appeared to be more blood than she actually lost. The other was on the back of her head and may be the reason she is blind right now.”

“Blind? She is blind? How?” Raoul exclaims. “The accident was minor, I was not even aware she hit her head once, much less twice.”

“That one drink?” Erik suggests as he removes his hand from Raoul’s arm. Standing up, he removes the needles from the alcohol, he places them on a clean, cotton cloth covering the tray he set it on the bed table. “Thank you, Gregory. Have a seat. You can wrap the ankle once the needles are removed.”

“Yes. One drink. In seven years I have had one drink – that was today – God forgive me for being human. Is it permanent?”

Erik shrugs. “I administered acupuncture treatment and will continue to do so, so long as the condition persists. Dr. Morrisey will examine her as to the pregnancy, so I cannot give you any information about that, other than there has been no bleeding – so that is a good sign.”

“I am happy for that.” Throwing his arm over his forehead Raoul says, “What a mess this turned out to be. I told her it was not safe, but she was determined – she was so excited.”

“Everyone is doing their best.” Erik says, “Now, I should like to give you a treatment as well – it will help with the pain – more effective than any medication.”

“You are going to stick needles in me?”

“With your permission, of course, but I would recommend it.”

Raoul nods. “Why not?”

Erik cleans different areas on Raoul’s head, torso and leg with disinfected swabs and sets the needles, tapping them in place, giving each one a twist. “It would be best if you stay still while the energy flows.”

Flinching slightly with each needle placement, Raoul asks, “How does this work?”

“The human body has energy points that feed certain areas of the body. Oftentimes there are blockages or, as in yours and Meg’s cases, additional energy is needed to heal some damage. I have placed the needles so your own healing energy will flow to your ankle.”

“Why can I just not have a pill or another drink – take the alcohol internally – is that not how they anesthetize people in wartime?”

“Was that why you took a drink while driving a car in the rain?” Erik asks. “You were at war – with whom? Meg?”

“She was being unbearable.”

“Always with an excuse,” Gustave says. “You always told Maman it was just one drink. One at a time in succession for hours.”

“You are still a brat,” Raoul says. “Definitely your son.”

“Yes, he is, and I am quite proud of him,” Erik says. “What happened?”

“What I have told everyone – Meg believes she is pregnant – I, for one, am not so sure.” He stares at the ceiling. “My seed is not, how shall I put it? Effective – particularly when the receptor is not welcoming my attention.” He turns to glare at Erik, avoiding Gustave’s stare.

“You think she is with child by someone else?”

“I do not think she is pregnant at all. When I told her of my belief, she became hysterical.”

“Why?” Gangle interjects. “Even weak sperm can fertilize the egg under the proper circumstances.”

Raouls says. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you people.”

“Who better?” Erik says. “Do you know anyone else? Seems like you have something you want to get off your chest. We can hardly dislike you more than we already do.”

“Yes, by all means, make it easier for me to bare my soul.”

Pausing in his work to examine Raoul’s face, Erik nods. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?” His tone hopeful. For the first time since the whole business with discussing Meg began, he senses some support and relaxes.

“The needles appear to be working – your body is starting to relax,” Erik says. ”Darius and I had a number conversations about Meg, her problems, their marriage.”

“What, Papa? What are you talking about?”

“You opened the can of worms,” Raoul says with a sneer. “Bird, bees, a father’s duty.”

“I should have allowed you to leave when you asked to go.”

“But you did not, now I want to know.”

“I am not sure Meg would appreciate this being discussed.”

“Papa, Meg has always been strange to me – I would like to know why,” Gustave says, plopping down in a chair. “We are going to be here for a while,” he says, waving his hand at the vicomte, now lying on the bed with his leg propped up, acupuncture needles visible up and down his body. “Might as well get educated by the men who raised me.”

“Haughty child,” Erik says, tapping the last needle, he takes the chair next to Gustave. “Gregory, you might as well join this discussion.”

“I have no wish to defame, Miss Meg, sir,” Gangle replies, wringing his bony hands. “But I suppose the boy should know some things. He suffered the most from her…issues.”

Gustave brightens at the prospect of being included in this adult talk. “Yes!”

“Very well, I shall being since I suspect she still blames me for her misfortunes.” Erik shifts in his seat. “I met Meg when she was younger than you are now – she called me Uncle,” Erik begins. “She and Adele were my only friends when I lived at the Palais Garnier, until your mother.”

“I met her when I became a patron of the Opera Populaire,” Raoul adds. “The two girls were good friends and Meg often helped when Christine wished to meet me… so the Opera Ghost would not know.” He casts a sly glance at Erik.

“Did she?” Erik raises his eyebrow.

“She did,” Raoul responds with a grin. “So you do not know everything.”

Gangle clears his throat. “Madame and Miss Meg were with your father on the ship we sailed on from England to America. I met Squelch there, too. Miss Fleck became part of our group when we arrived. We became an odd family, but a family nonetheless, but I digress. Truth is, Miss Meg…had a crush on your father.”

Erik closes his eyes, his fingers press into his knees. Once again he wishes he had made a different decision on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier – argued with Adele to bring Christine along. Today he believed he and Christine finally left that choice behind them once and for all, yet, here he was with their son – conceived on that night trying to explain why Meg Giry went mad.

“Meg fell in love with me – or so she believed – God knows why. For a moment I gave consideration to a relationship – I missed your mother deeply, but believed I would never see her again.” Erik takes Gustave’s hand. “Meg would not look at my face…could not…the one time she came to one of my performances, she became violently ill – nevertheless, she continued to believe she loved me. How can one love someone when you cannot bear to see them? In any event, it seems Adele encouraged the infatuation – mostly for financial security – whatever.”

Gustave rubs his back. “I know that hurt, Papa. I remember being surprised. This was different, though, I think – at least it seems so to me – she knew you – how could she be frightened?”

“We made our money based on the horror of my face – most people could not bear to look at me. Nadir was the first to accept me as I am, then your mother, then my friends…the trio,” he smiles at Dr. Gangle, who presses his hand to his heart in response. “And you. “

“That night on the pier…” Gangle says, taking control of the conversation again.

“Yes,” Gustave says, turning his attention to his beloved teacher and friend.

“She found out from her mother that you were the son of Mr. Y. Adele was quite angry and was not very sensitive to Meg’s feelings. It broke her heart and her spirit,” he says, giving Erik an apologetic look. “Mr. Y? Do you wish to continue?”

Erik waves a hand at him. Better Gangle tell the story – his level of compassion was and always would be greater than his own. The boy trusts him and his lens would be kinder to all of them – even Raoul.

“You see, she was so anxious to have Phantasma be a success for all of us, she thought by being friends with a lot of men who could help with money or permits, she could win your Papa’s love.”

Gustave frowns. “What do you mean _being friends?”_

“Being romantic.”

“But if she loved Papa, how could she be romantic with other men.”

“Well, that was the problem. It made her feel bad about herself. Then when she found out he loved your Maman and you were their child – it hurt her deeply – she felt guilty and very angry.”

“Is that why she was so friendly with me?”

“Friendly? How so?” Raoul asks.

“Meg was very flirtatious with Gustave. We, his mother and I, did our best to keep them separated,” Erik responds. “Darius saw what was going on and interceded – he was studying psychology and became friends with Meg – ultimately marrying her.”

“Yeah, I remember they were always together,” Gustave says. “She started acting weird though.”

Gangle takes up the narrative again. “There were medicines to help with her unhappiness, but sometimes she took too much.”

“Why did she go with you?” Gustave asks the vicomte. “Darius loves her.”

“Darius was a guard dog – her words. Said he kept watch over her because everyone was afraid of what she might do next. She wanted to get away from her prison. Again, her words. She wanted to see if she could succeed on her own.” Raoul says. “I liked her and am the last person to judge anyone.” He shrugs. “And I did not want to return to France.”

“Because of the book?” Gustave asks.

“Yes, the book – nothing worked out as I thought it would. The story of my life,” he laughs bitterly. “So the two lost souls wandered off into the night to see what sort of life they could make together.”

“Meg continued her celibacy?” Erik asks.

“If you want to call it that. To be frank – and it does appear we are all being frank here – neither of us was interested in the other in that way.” Looking down, a crooked smile passes across his lips as he shakes his head. “For better or worse, our hearts were still engaged elsewhere.” Looking back at Erik, he says, “So, yes, ours was a platonic relationship – except for one night.”

_“I got the part, Raoul…on my own – because of my voice and my dancing.”_

_“What are you talking about?”_

_“I went to an audition today – a small theater – not Broadway, but close by. A new production of The Pink Lady.”_

_“And?”_

_“They cast me – right then and there – no finagling from you and your title – no compromising side deals – just me.”_

“Her confidence was such as I never saw before and she wanted to celebrate. We had a nice dinner and…” Raoul says. “Even so, with only one brief interlude, I cannot believe she is pregnant.”

“I am confused,” Gustave says.

Erik exchanges a look with Raoul, then each man lowers his eyes.

Gangle laughs lightly. “I feel as though I am back in medical school, only this time teaching, instead of being one of the ignorant boys who does not understand the basics of human procreation.”

“You have done well so far,” Erik comments. “Feel free to continue. I, for one, am grateful for your intercession considering the nature of this discussion.”

“As am I,” Raoul agrees.

“Tell me.” Gustave insists, barely able to keep his seat. “Books are fine…”

“And you have certainly made good use of our library,” Erik says with a smirk.

“You left them for me to find.”

“I did. Were you to study the architectural tomes with as much energy and interest, we could be building houses instead of repairing amusement park attractions.”

“Papa.”

“Go on, Gregory, teach the boy – although I have a hunch he will be disturbed by the lesson.”

Gustave frowns, “Why?”

“Just listen, I am certain you will figure it out.”

“Quite simply, one need only have sexual intercourse once in order for a baby to be conceived,” Gangle says. “This was the case with your conception and, so it appears to be the same with the conception of Raoul’s child with Meg.”

The excited color brightening Gustave’s face throughout the discussion disappears. His pale face and loss of balance has Erik push the boy’s head down between his legs.

After a moment, Gustave brings himself back up to a sitting position.

“Better?”

The boy nods, taking a deep breath.

“Does this knowledge mean we must have a conversation?” Erik asks, resting his arm lightly across Gustave’s shoulders.

Gustave nods again.

“I see.” Erik blows out the breath he has been holding. “Tomorrow, we shall take a walk.”

“Yes, sir,” Gustave says. “Does Maman have to know?”

“You tell me.”

“If I may interject something I recall from past days when you were engaged in some activities not permitted to you,” Raoul says.

Gustave frowns at the man he believed to be his father for ten years. “What do you know about anything?”

“Your mother and I actually did speak to one another, Gustave. Perhaps not so much as she might have liked – I already know where I failed in that regard,” Raoul says, leaning toward the young man he never took the time to know. “I only want to assure you, she likely already knows whatever it is…I am assuming this is about a young woman.”

“So?”

“So,” Erik steps in. “I believe you have the answer to your question about Maman being involved in our conversation.”

“It was better when I only had one father at a time to contend with,” Gustave grumbles, looking up at Erik. “I thought you were on my side.”

“Who would have thought we might join forces?’ Erik says to Raoul with a chuckle.

Taking a deep breath, Raoul responds, “That is something I should like to discuss with you.”

Erik quirks his eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“This visit to Phantasma was also related to an idea I have along those lines. Meg suggested making peace – with the baby coming and all,” the vicomte continues in a rush.

“Now is obviously not the time, but let us get Meg through this and we shall talk.”

“Thank you.”

“For now,” Erik says, rising from his chair, “Gustave needs to fetch that ice and, once I remove these needles, I shall go next door to find out more about her condition.”


	5. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family meeting - Erik, Christine and Gustave.

“Papaaaa. Mamaaaan. Goooose.” The jumbled voices of the Saint-Rien children fill the hallway leading to the conservatory. Pushing past Henry, Emilie, rushes to grab Erik around his legs. “Where were you? We drawed pictures.”

“Drew, my darling, drew pictures.”

Christine smiles as Erik scoops the dark-haired diva into his arms as Margaret takes her place, hugging his hips. Erik places his free hand on the little girl’s neatly braided corn-colored hair. Two more different daughters they could never have imagined – but she sees his joy at their acceptance…their love for him, relishing the contact…absorbing the affection into his being.

Putting Emilie down, he removes his cloak and kneels on the floor, allowing them to show their artwork.

This is a joy neither of them might have imagined when their lives first connected. However much he may have longed for a loving physical contact, his response to her touch – during the _Point of No Return_ duet, or later when she kissed him – was of someone in shock – terrified. Perhaps the affection was a lie and he would be beaten. That sort of touch he understood perfectly.

Her mind drifts back to his angst earlier in the day about not having time to be to himself with his music and they must address that need in both of them. Still there is nothing that would convince her he would exchange the hugs of these precious jewels for anything.

Henry finds his own hug from Gustave, who kneels down so their faces are at the same level, giving him a kiss on the cheek before taking his sketch to examine. Their tousled hair so much alike – thick and wild, even when using the newest grooming pomades she buys for them. Her own hair, a mass of unruly curls, makes her particularly aware of the problems the boys have – along with Margaret, to some extent. Braids are the easiest way to handle her wiry locks.

On the other hand, Emilie’s hair has just the right thickness and body to turn into long locks with little effort. Like her father’s hair no doubt, when he had any to speak of. He had taken to adding streaks of white to his wigs, acknowledging his advancing years, but in the early days, when they first met, his wigs were created from sleek black hair very much like Emilie’s. Gustave and the twins, adopted or not, where her children in appearance – Emilie was the dark beauty her father might have been with a whole face – unmarred by the birth defect or whatever it was that distorted his visage.

Joshua, carried in by Julia, appears to be a combination of the two of them. Just three, his features have not lost the baby roundness, yet, facially, he resembles his sister more than his brother. His eyes are the same hazel as Gustave’s, and his hair, dark as Emilie’s, is as unruly as that of his eldest brother.

The young maid, growing into a beauty only hinted at when she first came to work at the house – no longer an awkward little girl, is now a young woman. When did that happen? It seems like just weeks ago she was a giggly girl in twin pony tails. Perhaps it was seeing her hold Joshua. Helen was their nanny and Julia did not spend much time with the children.

Christine supposes it was the case with her as well. Going from an awkward ballet girl to a diva almost overnight. Erik enabled that change. When Pappa died, she wanted to remain a child – sought to hide in the chorus of the opera – content to earn enough money to support herself, but avoiding any sort of adult role. If she could stay a child, perhaps Pappa could still be with her in some way.

But then, her angel appeared and she could no longer be a little girl – she was twenty years old – and fortunate, at that age to be allowed the protection she received from Madame Giry. Most of the other _rats_ were courting patrons – some younger than she, already used and returned to the corps de ballet. If she was to sing as she wanted, then she had to become a woman with all that entailed. The reunion with Raoul – the childhood sweetheart – now expecting…demanding more of her. The mirror. The angel who was really a man. Leaving childhood and the fantastical tales of her father…of being Little Lotte…behind once and for all.

Of course, sweet Julia was not experiencing the same drama of her awakening to womanhood as Christine. It was not really surprising M. Leroux found her story to be compelling enough to create a book about her relationship with a musical, if somewhat maniacal genius. Yet the longing is there in her eyes when she looks at Gustave. When Helen took over the duties of Nanny, Julia quickly learned to run the household. Thanks to the lessons Miss Fleck gave all the children in the household – she was developing her skills at mathematics and Erik thought she might find a place working at Phantasma with Adele.

This was something they discussed – particularly since the relationship between the girl and Gustave was growing from a childhood crush into something more mature. Neither she nor Erik felt it wise for them to be living under the same roof with limited chaperoning. Julia could continue to live at the house – since their parents were unable to care for the girls any longer – but if she could work outside the house, at least there would be some separation.

Christine smiles as Julia walks toward her to hand over the struggling little boy. The girl’s eyes shift from hers to Gustave and smiles brightly, ducking her head when she senses Erik watching her. “I am sorry the children are so unruly – they heard the car and…”

“There is no problem,” Christine says, rocking the chubby, three-year-old back and forth as he pulls the pins from her loosened curls. “Where is Helen?”

Taking the hair ornaments from the baby’s hand, she says, “This was her monthly evening – she and Miss Fleck took the train to the city to see a moving picture at the Regent Theater – we…they planned this last month. When the mister called, I agreed to stay home to take care of the children.”

“That was very kind,” Christine says. “We shall have to make it up to you.”

“Maman home. Can have candy?”

“Candy?”

“Julie says. Can have candy.” He swings his arm out to point at the young blonde. “Maman home. Can have candy.”

“You have all had your dinner?” Christine asks.

“Yes!”

Julia nods this is the truth. “Everyone ate their vegetables.”

“Then candy it is,” she says, walking to the round table. Setting Joshua into his highchair, she waves the other children to take their places. “They may each have a piece of fudge. Mr. Erik, Gustave and I would like to be free of our outer garments.”

Julia curtsies. “Can you all behave yourselves while I fetch your treats from the kitchen?”

The three older children nod excitedly as Joshua pounds his fists on the tray of his chair. “Candy. Candy.”

“I shall return as quickly as I can,” Julia says, tossing a look to Gustave, who does not meet her eyes, choosing instead to stay close to his father, shifting from one foot to the other, focusing his gaze on an undistinguishable point on the Aubusson carpet.

A small frown crosses her heart-shaped face, replacing a burgeoning smile, as she hastens from the conservatory on her mission to acquire the bribe to control the children for a while longer.

“All of you behave while Julia is gone,” Erik says. “We shall be back shortly and have our evening story.” Grabbing his cloak from the chair where he tossed it, he puts his hand on Gustave’s shoulder to usher him from the room. “Let us get comfortable – I should like to get into my smoking jacket and I am sure you would prefer a wool shawl to replace your outdoor cape, Christine.”

Satisfied the children will be calm for the short time they will be unattended, Christine follows her husband and son. “What is going on?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Gustave says.

“You hardly looked at Julia, do not tell me there is nothing going on,” she says, removing her bonnet to lay it on the table in the foyer next to her reticule. Removing her cloak, she gives it to Erik, who hangs both their garments on the coat rack. He hands her a white, hand-knitted shawl, then puts on his burgundy velvet lounge coat.

“They will dry faster here than the armoire, I think,” he says. “Gustave, are you going to hang up your jacket?”

“Yes, sir.” Following the lead of his parents, he exchanges his damp jacket for a heavy woolen shirt.

Christine’s eyes travel from one to the other. “I shall ask again: what is going on?”

Gustave looks at his father. “You said we would take a walk tomorrow.”

“Well, maybe we shall just sit in the den in front of a warm fire instead.”

“Erik?”

Erik looks down the hallway at Julia, who is rushing back to the sun room with a tray holding a dish of chocolates, three glasses, a plastic cup and a pitcher of milk. Sensing his eyes on her, she looks up, attempting a smile. When he lifts his chin and smiles back at her, mouthing “thank you,” she sighs, relaxing her shoulders and continues into the conservatory.

After a quick side-eye towards the girl, Gustave resumes staring at the ceiling, biting his lower lip.

“Will one of you please tell me…” Christine follows Erik’s eyes to Julia, then studies her eldest son. A rush of adrenalin speeds her heartbeat. Neither of them discussed what happened in Raoul’s room – she assumed most of the talk was about his injury – although Erik did mention Raoul wanted to discuss some sort of business venture. What that might be, she had no idea. Raoul had no appreciable skills to translate into a business venture, even now he was living off of Meg.

Meg – another situation to be addressed, but for now, she and Raoul were tucked away in their infirmary beds – staff called in to take care of both of them for the night. This allowed everyone, particularly Adele, Nadir, Darius and Yasmine, to get some rest. Nothing more could be done at the moment. Rest was the recommendation. They all shared a most welcomed dinner Chef sent over and left, agreeing to return in the morning to access both Meg’s and Raoul’s situation and decide what to do next for both of them.

The ride home was made mostly in silence. Welcome quiet after the worry and medical discussions. The recommitment between her and Erik this morning seems a distant memory, making her more determined to bring their need to be alone together a priority – carving a space for themselves amidst the happy chaos that is their life.

It struck her her thoughts tonight about her own developing womanhood when thinking about Julia were not awry. So, did she and Erik not act soon enough with Gustave? She hoped not. “Oh.” Taking the lead, she walks past Erik and Gustave to the den. “Are you coming? It would appear despite our fatigue, we still have much to discuss tonight.”

“Brandy? Erik asks holding up the carafe.

“Not too much, a finger – thank goodness we all at a good dinner,” Christine says, removing her boots before reclining on the blue velvet chaise. Resting her head on an elbow, she pulls a handmade afghans over her legs.

“Gustave? You may have a small amount with water, if you like,” Erik says. “You are coming to adulthood and the day has been stressful.”

Gustave’s eyes light up at Erik’s tone and the offer of a drink. Flopping down into one of the high-backed leather chairs that sits on either side of the fireplace. Looking to his mother for confirmation, he is relieve to see her nod.

“Three parts water,” she says, “You might add some water to mine as well.”

Erik makes a sour face. “Waste of a finely aged liquor.”

“If I am to stay awake for this discussion, then weakened it must be.”

“Maybe we could talk tomorrow,” Gustave interjects.

Both his parents frown at the comment.

“I just meant we are all tired and the day has been long – what are a few more hours?” The boy mutters.

“I do not want to drag this out until tomorrow or the next day,” Erik says, handing each of them their snifters. Picking up his own, a full two fingers, he takes the leather chair opposite Gustave. “The girl is anxious herself at your behavior tonight and I want to know exactly what the situation is between the two of you.”

“You are not going to let her go?” Gustave cries.

“Hardly, I have been considering hiring her to work at Phantasma with Adele. She is very adept at numbers and we need a bookkeeper.”

“Despite what you believed to be discretion – your attachment to one another is quite obvious.” Christine says. “I suppose my question is, how did Gustave’s romance with Julia become a topic of conversation with Raoul?”

“He and Meg only had intercourse one time and she got pregnant.” Gustave blurts out.

Christine almost chokes on her drink, starting a coughing fit.

Erik rises to go to her, but she waves him back. “I am all right – at least my throat is all right. I am not certain about my state of mind.” Readjusting her position on the chaise, she says, “How did you come to discuss, er, um, Raoul’s and Meg’s private relations?”

“He said he did not believe she was with child,” Gustave says.

“Indeed?”

“Dr. Gangle explained that one might only have one experience, but even once can lead to pregnancy,” Erik looks at her, then down and away.

“True enough.”

“That is how you said it was with me,” Gustave says, taking a sip of the watered down brandy, wrinkling his nose.

“Tell your mother what happened next.”

Gustave refuses to meet her eyes. “I started to faint.”

“I see.”

“You do?” Gustave says, his eyes wide as he studies his mother’s face.

“I assumed his illness suggested he had tasted the forbidden fruit – to use the Biblical expression.”

“And have you?” Christine asks. “That does seem to be the question needing an answer, first and foremost.”

“Why is that so wrong – you and Papa…”

“This is not about me and Papa. If anything knowing what happened between us would have you be more aware of the dangers and ramifications of acting recklessly…” she turns to look at Erik “…however much you may love someone.”

“This is not like that.”

“Then what is it _like?”_

“Not like you and not like Raoul and Meg.” He stands up, putting his snifter on the table sitting between his chair and his father’s. “We are being careful.” He continues, nodding his head in a professorial manner, agreeing with himself as he forms the lesson in his head he will be teaching his parents.

“Condoms – you are using condoms?”

“And withdrawal.”

“And monitoring her monthlies, too, I would imagine?” Christine smirks.

“Yes, all those things.” Gustave nods firmly, folding his arms across his chest.

“How long has this been going on?” Erik asks. “The planning and making certain you have adequate precautions in place.”

“Just once.”

“Once.”

“Thank god,” Christine whispers.

“When?”

“Papa!”

“I asked you when. Do not _Papa_ me? That young girl is my charge, she is living in my house and I will not have you take advantage of her.”

“It did not bother you with Maman.”

Erik rises to his feet, standing toe to toe with his son, he raises his hand.

“Erik, no.” Christine cries.

“I will not tolerate this insolence – I will not have him insult you or our love.”

“How do you know I do not love Julia?”

“You may very well love Julia, but you are not yet seventeen. She is but sixteen herself.”

“Gustave. Son. You are children.”

“Then why have I had these feelings since I was twelve? Papa gave me all these books and I know you think you are quiet, but I hear you,” he growls. “I feel things and I do not know how to deal with them… besides fouling handkerchiefs.” The last words barely audible.

“What is this about handkerchiefs?” Christine asks, looking to Erik for an explanation.

“Good God.” Gustave slouches more deeply into the leather chair.

Clearing his throat, Erik sends an apologetic look to his son. “Take a moment to think about it, my dear, I am certain you will understand, without forcing either Gustave or myself to explain the relationship between handkerchiefs and the need a man might have for one…when feeling certain feelings for a woman…when he is unable to express his feelings in such a way…so a handkerchief would not be necessary.”

Christine cocks her head, thoroughly confused by the nonsensical explanation about handkerchiefs and feelings he is expounding. Fascinated by the perspiration forming on Erik’s forehead that has nothing to do with the blaze in the fireplace, the realization dawns on her. A memory of Helen’s comment as to the number of linen squares Master Gustave uses – wondering if he had allergies since he did not appear to be ill with a cold or influenza, comes to mind.

Much as she wishes to hold it back, a fairly loud guffaw escapes her lips, followed by a rush of giggles she is unable to contain. “I am sorry, my darlings. This is a conversation the two of you should probably continue in private. However, since I am present, I will tell you women have similar feelings, although our physical response is not so obvious – one of the few gifts given us by our lord when deciding how procreation would work.”

“Maman!” Gustave’s color grows brighter by the moment, his face only slightly less red than that of his father. He stomps around the room - hands over his ears. “Can we please stop talking about this?”

“You just told us you were being careful and using condoms and withdrawal,” Erik says. “The girl is living in our house and I will not have you taking advantage of your position with her. You must get married.”

“Married! I am too young to be married! Arrgh!” Stopping in his tracks, Gustave throws his head back, pressing his fists against his thighs and shouts, “We have not done it.”

“What?” Christine exclaims. “You have not been intimate?”

“Then what was all the posturing you were doing?” Erik says, eyebrows raised in tandem with his voice.

“Posturing – like you said.” All his bravado vanishes. “We came close one day – once – now she will allow no more than a kiss or two and I have to grovel for that,” Gustave says, walking to the fireplace, using the poker to break up the logs, sending sparks flying up the chimney. “I did not want you to think I was careless.”

“You would rather we think she was loose with you?” Christine asks. “I am surprised at you, Gustave Saint-Rien. You say you care for her.”

“I do.”

“They why all the upset when we…when Dr. Gangle was talking about even one…time…together with a woman could produce a child.”

“I did not want Raoul to think I was still a little boy. He called me a brat.”

“So you thought it better he believe you were assaulting a young girl?” Erik stands up, waving his hands in the air. “That was some performance you put on – perhaps you should add actor to your repertoire of talents,” Erik continues, pressing a hand against his forehead. “Why should his opinion make you lie in such a way?

“Oh, Gustave,” Christine sighs, opening her arms to her son. “Come here.”

“Why did he not love me?” Kneeling on the floor, he lays his head in his mother’s lap. Despite his efforts, tears roll down his cheeks.

The boy’s despair quickly ends Erik’s own melodrama – he joins them on the chaise, rubbing his son’s back. “He is a fool. He always was.”

“I am sorry I let you think Julia was easy with me.”

“I would say apologize to her, but better she not know any of this,” Erik says, looking to his wife, “I am certain your mother would agree.”

“I do. I will say, though, you need to reassess your feelings about women in general,” Christine says. “I am not pleased you would create a story to absolve your own misbehavior. Why on earth would you create such a story?”

“I hear the men talk…at the park.”

“Braggadocio – foolish men making up stories,” Erik says. “Perhaps you should not be spending so much time there.”

“No, Papa, I know better – truly. I love working at Phantasma.”

“We shall see, I am very disappointed in the choice you made responding to the Vicomte. You are more a man than he could hope to be at your age…or any age.”

“I am sorry he was not a better father to you,” Christine says. “That I did not insist on it.”

“I wish I had been a father to you then.”

“I wish I was a better son…and beau today – I really do lo…like her very much.”

The three of them look at one another and starting with hesitant smiles, find themselves joining in some light laughter.

“If horses were wishes, then beggars would ride,” Christine says. “In a perfect world, we would have all been together without any of the sorrow. But, that was not to be. We cannot let the past destroy what we do have now.”

Wiping his eyes, Gustave gets to his feet, straightening his clothes. “Do you think I might apologize to her now – I was quite rude when we arrived home?”

“Of course,” Christine says, looking to Erik for his agreement.

He nods. “Most certainly.” Standing up, he offers his hand to Christine.

Gustave stops after opening the door. “Papa? Maman?”

“Yes, son.”

“I am sorry.”

“Go – have your dessert with the others,” Erik says. “We shall be there shortly.”

Once he is gone, Christine rests her head on Erik’s chest. “I am confused about what to think or what to do next.”

Pressing his lips to her forehead, brushing aside the curls loosened when Joshua removed her hairpins. “In terms of Gustave, I think we should trust he has learned a lesson. As for us – I believe a piece of that fudge is in order.”


	6. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past rears its head again - will Erik and Christine be able to deal with this newly awakened memory?

“Everyone settled in?” Erik asks Nadir as he enters the Eyrie, immediately flopping down on the new seven-foot long sofa, upholstered in a deep brown corduroy to look as much like leather as possible. Erik had the piece specially made for the library area of the room.

“More or less,” the daroga says, stretching his legs full length, head resting on the rolled arm of what is a massive piece of furniture. “To be quite honest, I left as quickly as Adele would permit. It was quite a zoo – with all the medical equipment and nurses and whining…how those two live together is beyond me.”

“Meg and Raoul were complaining…about what – they have a lovey place to live – Christine’s old suite is ideal for them. The hotel staff at their beck and call while they heal.”

“Life. Everything in their mediocre useless lives. Why you are indulging them is beyond me. Boat rides?”

“We have a pier. Raoul is an experienced sailor,” Erik laughs. “Besides, they have no one else.”

“Have you never wondered why?”

“I know why, my friend.”

“You believe in karma and paying debts, etcetera, etcetera, but there is nothing you have done in your life that demands this level of contrition.”

“It will not be that terrible.”

“Just wait,” the daroga assures him, toeing off his shoes. “In any event, everyone sent me off with an enthusiastic farewell when I explained we would be going over Raoul’s new contract.” Rolling on to his side, he props his head up with a fist. “This is quite nice, we could use something like this at home – excellent for naps.”

“That is why I designed it in such a way – the seat cushions are wider and if you lift the arms, you will find pillows and blankets,” Erik says. “Should have thought of it years ago when living beneath the opera house – might have gotten more sleep and been a sight less irritable.”

“You think your ill temper comes from a lack of naps?”

“It is possible.”

“I cannot speak for those years, but you had plenty of opportunity to sleep at the palace and it did nothing for your temper.”

“When one is little more than a slave, one’s temper is bound to be bad,” Erik responds. “You might have warned me when we were in Russia I would lose my freedom. Somehow I suspect I might have gone on my merry way rather than accompany you – as charming a soul you were.”

“Still holding that against me?” Nadir says. “Trust me, had I known, I would never have encouraged you to join me.”

“Still arguing over the events of forty years ago?” Christine asks, entering the central room from the small kitchen. Carrying a tray with a teapot, cups and a plate of muffins, she shakes her head at the bickering partners. “Have a snack – it will improve your moods.”

“My mood was perfectly fine until I was reminded the time of my greatest architectural achievement would be rewarded with death by torture.”

“I did not let that happen,” Nadir argues. “My own life was put at risk helping you escape.”

Christine frowns as she sits down next to him on the couch. “What did happen to you, Nadir? You never said.”

“Let us just say planting the body of a vagabond, dressed as Erik, on the shore of the sea was my saving grace.”

“I do not understand,” Christine says, pouring tea for each of them, nudging the sugar bowl toward him.

Erik pushes aside the papers he has been looking over and leaves his desk to join them. Sitting in his chair across from the sofa, he picks up a cup of tea, placing a muffin on the saucer. “Please do explain – I am not sure I heard this particular tale.”

“I was not certain the Shah would believe you escaped despite my injuries.”

“He thought I would have killed you?”

“Precisely, he knew your skill with the garrote – he watched you use it often enough – knew you had total control. If you wanted someone dead – he would be dead.” A low chortle rolls from his lips as he takes a cube of sugar to chew on, not noticing the stares of both Erik and Christine.

Christine gasps. “That is not funny, Nadir. How can you say that about Erik and then laugh?” Turning to her husband, lips curling in disgust, distorting the normally gentle face – it was as if they thrust back in time to the first time Erik’s face was revealed to her. “You used that thing for the Shah…on Nadir…on other people?” 

Nadir’s eyes widen. Erik’s entire face might be made of porcelain – his flesh cold and white – hard as the mask – the only life coming from the fire in his amber eyes. What had he done? This was supposed to be another of their past recollections of another time – another silly argument – everyone laughing at the verbal sparring.

“I told you of my past – my evil acts,” Erik says, rising from his chair, placing his cup back on the table. “I told you I was used by the Shah – but somehow believed it to be my fate – to create and destroy – another cycle trying to understand why I was born at all.” Never taking his eyes from hers, his whisper harsh, “The nightmares that keep me awake until this day remind me of my vile deeds. Were it possible, I would change my actions, but I cannot – any more than I can alter this face.”

“I know,” she murmurs, unable to look at him. “I know.”

“Do you?” Pressing his eyes closed, as he bows his head, arms hang loose at his side, hands facing up in supplication. “Will I ever be enough, just as I am? Will the day come when I shall not have to see that expression on your face?”

“What would you have me say?” she answers, pressing her hands together in her lap, lifting her eyes to his again, “I love you with my entire being – there is truly nothing I cannot forgive from your past. I know who you have been these past years and who you are now. But I am human, I cannot hear of another travesty and simply allow it to pass. I see your self-hatred – but you would hate _me_ if I did not acknowledge what you yourself despise.”

Erik nods curtly, distancing himself from both of them, sitting down at the piano, stroking the keys in a random fashion.

“He had to garrote me, Christine,” Nadir says – he must resolve this. He could not recall seeing, worse yet feeling the chasm between them – why this? Why now? His voice took on an urgency he could feel pulsing through his veins. “It had to look like I had only just escaped death – that Erik misjudged how much pressure to apply – to kill. Even then the Shah did not believe it was not a ploy.”

“Let me see your neck.”

Breathing deeply, the Persian unties his cravat, revealing his neck. A scar similar to Erik’s is exposed. Completely different from the scarring left by the rope on Raoul’s neck. The wire left a finer, deeper scar, almost elegant in its simplicity.

“And did the vagabond have such a scar?” Christine asks, her own breathing uneven…rough.

“No. Erik did nothing. He was not aware of my actions,” Nadir rushes to reply. “I shot the man.”

“You killed someone?” Erik exclaims.

“Funny thing about that – one cannot always find dead bodies near the sea when you want one,” Nadir says, his voice thick with sarcasm and a measure of relief – the tide was turning – the danger passed. “I had to protect myself from the Shah’s anger. The man was a thief and murderer already tried and convicted, such as our system worked. A death by gunshot was a blessing compared to what he might have suffered – decapitation, but only after his hands were cut off.”

Christine makes a gagging sound, holding her stomach she gets up, running to the water closet.

“Let me help,” Erik says following her.

“No. Stay there. I am all right.”

Following her, despite the refusal, Erik kneels next to the commode, holding her locks away from her face. When she has finished vomiting, he hands her a small cotton towel to wipe her mouth as he helps her stand.

“Was it necessary to be so graphic,” Erik growls at the daroga, as he guides Christine back to the couch.

“It seemed necessary to illustrate the nature of the man who held you in bondage. The conversation was becoming an indictment of you and the position you were in,” Nadir says. “Death was an everyday thing at the palace, Christine. I wish it were not so, but I killed many during my time as sheriff in service to the Shah. To have you think Erik was the only one would be unfair to him and to you.”

“Whenever I hear these stories I feel as though they are from a story book. I look at our life – granted not many people own an amusement park, but it is a business. We have normal lives – families, friends, nothing extraordinary.” Christine uses her own linen hankie to dab at her forehead and mouth, before taking several sips of tea. “What sort of world was that?”

“A world of excess in all things,” Nadir says. “When people become numb to any sort of pleasure or pain everything ceases to have value. It becomes very easy to fall into a trap.” His eyes seek Erik’s and is relieved to find his glance is welcome. How the discussion deteriorated into this journey back to a time long past and, if not forgotten, at least forgiven or simply put to one side as insignificant.

In times of prayer and meditation, he often wonders how Erik and Christine are able to overcome the challenges Erik’s past presents. Erik suggested to him on many occasions of his confessions to her – without necessarily being specific. The incident just now, causing her bout of illness, was not related to Erik, but he also understands her being repulsed by the garrote scars. Were Erik’s body not a tapestry of cruelty at the hands of others – when combined with any stories he may have told her about his youth – she might not be so forgiving of his vicious acts.

Having been kidnapped by Erik that last night at the Palais Garnier, and witnessing what his rage could produce, Nadir is impressed at the level of faith and trust this woman has for Erik. A man both of them are fascinated by and love despite what they know of his former self.

Time has changed him – perhaps it does heal all wounds as the old adage suggests. The memory lingers, but is ephemeral. When trying to capture the elements of a recollection, it tends to lose much of the power it may have over the present. Christine lives with Erik as he is – if the other Erik, the one from the past returns for a time – the knowledge of the man she lives with ultimately takes precedence.

The short journey back to Persia will be superseded by the reality of the new couch and the conversation Nadir and Adele had this morning with Meg and the Vicomte de Chagny. A discussion about their living situation turned into a business proposal having nothing to do with Punjab lassos or scars or a criminal whose life was taken so that Erik could escape his servitude to the Persian Shah.

“Would you like to discuss the contract with Raoul?”

“Perhaps we could have this discussion at another time,” Erik says.

Or not. “Of course. Christine was upset…”

Taking him by the arm, Erik guides the daroga to the door. “I shall call you.”

“I am sorry.”

“Yes. I know.”

“I can provide more of an explanation.”

Erik shakes his head, holding the door open. “I will call you.”

Nodding, the Persian leaves.

Straightening his waistcoat, Erik takes a deep breath and returns to the Eyrie, not entirely certain of how he feels about what transpired just now. A tangle of emotions always lurking, waiting to pounce, to seize his heart, the fear she will leave him and the rage…demonic rage as ugly as his face – roil within him. Has he not been impeccable in his behavior these past years? Damn the daroga. Damn his mother. Damn Christine. Damn the fates and his own tarnished soul.

How will his presence will be met? Perhaps Nadir’s own confession would mitigate the fear and disgust Christine still harbors in the back of her mind – only coming forward during moments like these. Two men who lived through a time both magical and hellish, recalling a past for them, but for this young woman is now the present – no time in between dulling the horror – the demon she keeps at bay.

Every time one of these recollections comes to light, he wonders if it will be the last. If this will be the time she truly leaves him – taking his life with her.

Christine sits hunched over on the couch, sobs wracking her body as she presses the scrap of lace-embroidered linen against her eyes.

Erik stands over her. “May I sit?”

Christine nods, falling into his arms once he takes his place next to her. “I am so sorry.”

Relief floods through him. Safe – he is still safe within her heart. Now he must bring her that same peace, discover why she is suffering. “You responded with honest.. One of the things in my life I can always count on – you will tell me the truth – be it in words or by a look on your face.”

“I meant what I said about forgiving you anything - shall not leave you.” Lifting her hand to his face, she caresses his cheek, searching his eyes for his own forgiveness. “How old were you?”

“I did not keep track of time or my age, but I would guess fifteen – sixteen years.”

“Younger than Gustave is now.”

“Yes.”

“How old were you when you…when Nadir helped you escape from the Shah?”

“Twenty years.”

“Dear God.”

“After my taking leave of the palace – there was no more violence…or to be truthful, only minimal tussles – even when provoked – and, I assure you, there was provocation. I promised Nadir I would only take another’s life in self-defense.”

“You were a child...”

“Dearest Christine, I was never a child – but I was young.” Taking her hand, he kisses her fingertips. “You are more than generous. I am not certain _I_ would forgive me.” His tone rueful.

“I know you would not, which is why I must and do.” Sniffling, she offers him a smile. “When Pappa and I were on the road – he was very conscious of the highwaymen – we kept off the main roads as much as possible – traveled alone – he was wary of larger groups.”

“Which was very wise of him – particularly with a young girl in his charge,” Erik says. “The thuggees sought out groups to infiltrate. They made their way through India, but the European continent had its own share of robbers and thieves. You see me as one of the bandits.” It is a statement, no element of doubt in his voice. “I understand and you would be correct. Not then or there, of course, but, in a similar circumstance – never a woman or a child, but, yes.”

Sighing deeply, she takes his hands in hers, taking him back in time with her. “When I was about twelve – we came across a group of people who were attacked just the night before…” Shuddering, she digs her fingers into his. “There was so much blood, no one survived…”

“No. Oh, no. I am sorry you had to see such violence.”

“We saw them the day before – Pappa had received an extra fee for playing his violin at a wedding in the town, so we could afford to sleep inside, have a real meal and rest without fear of the night. Some of the men came into the inn where we were staying to buy bread and dried meat.”

“You might have joined them?” Removing her hands from his, he shifts their position, stroking them gently, to release the palpable tension.

Nodding, she continues, “Pappa spoke to the leader who wanted to leave immediately – they wanted to reach their destination for a meeting of some sort – work – I am not sure.” Shrugging, she says, “He thanked them, but said, no. This was a treat for us and he wished to take advantage of it – these sorts of benefits did not happen very often.”

Both are still. The quiet of the Eyrie surrounds them, the sun shrouded by clouds casts changing shadows through the skylights across the wooden floor.

“We tried to at least cover them up…Pappa said to take anything useful…food, if there was any.” She turns to look at him, her tears returning. “The victuals from the inn lay under a blanket. I stashed them in my duffel.”

“You do not have to go on.”

“Yes. I do.” Swallowing hard. “Papa saw some movement in a copse of trees…he thought there might be a goat…they had a goat…it turned out to be one of the robbers…murderers…hiding in the trees. He jumped out and grabbed Pappa.” The heaving of her chest makes it difficult for her to continue. “They fell to the ground.”

“Take your time.”

“I picked up a rock and ran over to them. As hard as I could, I struck the man on the side of his head – twice. Twice. I struck him twice as hard as I could.” A sneer curves her trembling lips, her body shudders. “I hated him.”

Erik rocks her in his arms, kissing her forehead. “Breathe slowly.”

“Pappa crawled out from beneath him…struggling to his feet. I dropped the rock. Pappa looked down at the man – a knife lay next to his body.

“Dead?”

Shaking her head, she says, “He was not moving.”

“Your father – injured?”

“I did not know. I could not move…simply stood staring at him…he at me.” Her voice dull. Her eyes dull squinting to clarify the image in her mind’s eye. “His brow was furrowed, his eyes – they were a deep blue – confused…sad.” She turns to Erik. “After a moment, it seemed longer…forever…but just a moment, he picked up the rock and hit him again.” Closing her eyes, in a toneless voice, she says, “We gathered up what items we could carry and left.”

“I see.” Rocking her gently, he says, “You were very brave. You saved your father’s life.”

“I killed that man.”

“You do not know that.”

“Pappa told me – the shock and pain on his face.”

“But he struck the man again.”

“To protect me – so I would never be certain…but I knew…I know.”

“Self-defense…”

“Shhh.” She presses a finger against his lips “I needed to tell you. Accept what I just told you. You are not alone.

“Christine…I am sorry you had to know of such things.”

“And I am sorry _you_ had to know of such things.” Nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck, she says, “I should have told you sooner – years ago. The time was never right – or I could not muster the courage. Today, though…I could not keep it to myself any longer – not when I responded so cruelly to you – as if I was some pure creature. I never want you to feel unworthy again – at least not because of my weakness.”

“I do not know what to say. You acted out of love for your father – you are no murderer, my love.”

“Taking a life is taking a life – something changes inside.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true.” Taking her fully into his arms, he presses his lips to her hair, breathing in the scent of jasmine. “You smell like a summer’s evening. One would not know autumn was upon us.”

“Your favorite.”

“Whatever scent you wear is my favorite – or have you not discovered that truth yet?” He says, gathering her even closer to him. “Everything you are is my favorite.”

Managing a small laugh, she asks, “What were you playing on the piano earlier?”

“Nothing…just notes - trying to find a way to speak.”

“A minor key.”

“Sorrow…grief.”

“Do you remember what you played? It was lovely…the melody touched me.”

“Did it?”

Nodding, she gets up, taking his hand pulling him after her. “Come, you shall play and I shall sing.” As they walk to the piano, she recalls the melody for him. “A nocturne – I am certain it was meant to be a nocturne.”

“It rather suits the mood – if that is what you would like.”

“Yes, I think I would like that very much.”


	7. All Hallows Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner party with most of our players present. A lot of back story is revealed amidst uncomfortable undercurrents.

With one last flicker, the candle inside the Jack-O-Lantern centerpiece reaches the end of its life just as the family finishes their All Hallows Eve dinner. Emilie sits on Erik’s lap licking her lollipop dessert, having made her way from the smaller children’s table to where her papa and the other adults are sitting. Joshua pummels the table of his high chair with his sucker.

“He has definitely inherited your talent for building,” Nadir comments. “Hammering being one of his major talents, judging by his energy and determination.”

“Nadir – he is just a baby,” Adele nudges her husband.

“He is right,” Christine laughs, lifting the toddler from his chair onto her lap.

“Candy,” Joshua says, holding up the sucker.

“Yes, candy. You are supposed to eat it,” she says. “I would be most happy if we can actually turn his gift around to building rather than demolition – he has quite mastered the latter.”

The other children escape their exile. Gustave pulls Margaret onto his knee. “I personally dread the day he is released from the nursery.”

“I shall help him,” Henry says, leaning against Gustave’s other knee, gazing up at him, until the older boy brings him onto his lap.

Gustave groans, “You two are getting big.”

Ignoring the complaint, Henry makes himself comfortable on his brother’s lap. “We draw with crayons – he likes to help pick the colors.”

“Margaret is quite a dress designer, I understand,” Meg offers, smiling at the little girl, who looks at her with adoring eyes. “Our names are almost the same, did you know that – my real first name is Marguerite.”

The little girl bobs her head, grinning widely. “My Mam called me Maggie, but I like Margaret better.

“She has a book of drawings,” Miss Fleck says, smiling at her pupil.

“I could show it to you,” the young girl says.

“I would like that very much,” Meg says, looking around the table for any signs of disapproval. “After the scare with my accident, I want to see everything.”

“Once we are finished here, we can visit the playroom,” Miss Fleck says. “Margaret has also sewn some of her designs with the help of Mrs. Christine and myself. She is quite gifted.”

“I cannot sew a stitch,” Meg answers. “With a baby coming I should at least learn how to stitch a hem.”

“I could show you that, too!”

“One thing at a time,” Christine says, “Perhaps a sewing circle might be a good idea for all of us – including the menfolk.”

“I do not know about that,” Nadir says. “I am not very handy – I would probably stick myself with the needle…”

“Get an infection and die, no doubt,” Erik comments. “Sewing is a skill everyone should have – you can stitch your own wounds if necessary.”

“Why on earth would I have such a need unless you were particularly petulant some day?” the Persian replies. “I should like to think I left that part of my life behind with the shah in Tehran.”

“Sewing is actually a handy skill – particularly with boating – mending sails…that sort of thing,” Raoul joins in the conversation.

“You sew?” Nadir chokes on his tea, inviting a coughing fit.

“I do.”

“Then you can teach me,” Meg chimes in.

“I want to teach you,” Margaret says, pouting.

“I suspect young Margaret’s type of sewing would be more appropriate for your needs, my dear,” Raoul says. “The type of sewing I know is rough.”

“Oh, good,” Margaret says, clapping her hands.

“I suppose you are right…but if there is an emergency around the house, I now know who I can ask,” Meg laughs. “I should be honored to have you teach me, Margaret.”

“Speaking of sailing, how are the plans going for the boat rides?” Erik asks.

“Quite well, I think,” Raoul answers, wiping his lips with a napkin before putting it on the table. “Mr. Squelch, here, has been a great help.”

“Yes, we would not have a Phantasma without him and Dr. Gangle.”

Squelch and Gangle bow their heads at the compliment, muttering their thanks under their breath. An air of discomfort surrounds them, the confidence and humor exhibited at Phantasma is absent in the dining room of the family home. “The Vicomte’s plans are workable – the pier can be fitted to handling people wanting boat tours. It still needs work, but we can do it, I am sure,” Squelch says. “Perhaps, Master Gustave would be willing to help with the drawings.”

Raoul’s face brightens. “Do you think you might want to help?”

Looking first at his father – then to the other side of the table at Christine, he finds both faces remaining neutral to his silent entreaty. Finally meeting the eyes of the man he once believed was his father, he says, “I would be happy to help with the design – anything to make Phantasma more successful.”

Raoul’s smile widens. “Thank you, Gustave. Thank you.”

The room falls silent, each guest finding any remains on their dinner plates irresistible.

Erik says, “I am sorry Darius was unable to attend our dinner.”

Christine’s eyes widen at her husband, her mouth miming for him to “shush.”

While the others avoid looking at either Meg or Raoul, Erik says flatly, “Well, I _am_ sorry. This gathering was intended for the entire family and I consider Darius family. No offense intended to anyone here – we are an odd lot by anyone’s definition. If someone is uncomfortable with that – well, it cannot be helped. I, for one, never thought I would be breaking bread with the vicomte here and I suspect he would agree. Is that not so.” His amber eyes lock with Raoul’s blue ones.

Raoul clears his throat, muttering, “Yes, that is quite true.” Turning to Nadir, he continues. “Where is Darius?”

“His faith in Islam is particularly strong and, for some of the faith, participation in Halloween is worse than taking part in Christmas or Easter celebrations – much of that having to do with death and saints and other mystical business.”

“Please let him know he was missed,” Erik says.

Gritting her teeth into a smile, Christine says, “This has always been my favorite part of our Halloween tradition – tales about relatives who are no longer with us. Remembering their passing – which I feel is the true spirit of this night.”

“I recall you mentioning this years ago, when we were still in France – Phlllippe was very much against it,” Raoul says.

“He felt I was intruding on the family’s history,” she replies. “Perhaps I was – I only wanted to learn more about your people…your mother. My own father was so important to me – I loved talking about him – I thought your brother and sisters would feel the same about your parents.”

Raoul searches her face – finding her interest sincere – he takes a deep breath. “Since this is a tradition – and I am determined to make myself welcome to all of you – I am willing to tell the story of my mother – at least what I know of her passing.”

Maurice de Chagny knelt at the side of Veronique’s bed, his love, his wife, his partner. Dead. Gone from him and their three…now four children. Cursed God who would allow a mother to die, leaving her babe in his hands. A child neither of them expected or wanted, but she refused the herbs Maurice secured.

_“We must have this babe, Maurice, to prevent his birth would be a sin.”_

_“A sin for whom? We have a son and two beautiful daughters already at an age when they are less dependent on us for time and attention.”_

_“For me – because I love this life within in me – he is a kind and gentle soul.”_

_“He?”_

_“Yes. He. I should like to call him Raoul for my father.”_

The mid-wife asked if he would like to hold the small child – born too early, at least based on the doctor’s assessment. Small and frail. A gentle-souled boy who would have no mother to care for him. “I do not believe I would – I should be concerned I might hurt him.”

“He is actually quite robust for such a birth, determined to live.”

“I only wish my wife had been so determined.” Maurice rose to leave the room, passing his son…his eldest son…a grieving mind corrected him.

“Pere?”

“It is a boy. His name is Raoul.” Stopped momentarily by the boy’s questioning eyes, he said, “Your mother is dead.”

Phillippe gasped, his father’s words striking a blow to his heart. Tears rose in his gray eyes. “Maman is dead?”

“Yes, but her son lives…robust according to the mid-wife.”

“What went wrong?” Phillippe implored the woman, appearing too young to have such responsibility over life and death. A shake of her mob-capped head is all she offered in explanation.

“You have no answer,” the eleven-year-old boy stated.

“He was early, but the birth went well – I do not know,” she said, returning her attention to the baby, tying off the cord, bathing his small body before wrapping him in a soft blanket. “She asked to hold him, so I placed him on her breast after he cried – assuring us he was breathing. After kissing his forehead and running her hand over him, she closed her eyes and left us.”

Phillippe moved to the bed. The woman he adored had a faint smile on her face. Slightly opened eyes look past him. A normally pale complexion is still flush from the effort of birth, her golden hair damp, small curls framing her face like a halo – she was beautiful. He touched her hand and the body jerked, shocking him – throwing him backwards.

“She is still alive,” he cried. “She moved when I touched her hand.”

“No, Monsieur Phillippe, her body is just releasing…tension – her nerves relaxing…” An offensive odor wafts from the body. “…her internal organs…I shall tend to her. Has the wet nurse arrived?”

“Yes, yes, that is why I came, to tell Pere of her arrival.”

“Perhaps you could send her in. The boy will need to suckle.”

“Of course,” the young boy, aging by the moment, bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I shall take care of him, Maman. Do not worry, I shall take care of Raoul.”

“As you can see from my tale, being welcome into a family is not something I am familiar with,” Raoul clears his throat. “I am, however, willing to try.” Taking a sip from his tea cup, he sits back in his chair. Meg places a hand on his arm. At first he pats it lightly, then squeezes it – turning to smile at her before lowering his head.

“I was not aware you lost your mother, Vicomte,” Erik says. “I believe there are three of us present who suffered that loss – in one way or another.”

Seeking Christine’s approval, she nods for him to go ahead. Erik has told her of his relationship with his mother…this might be a good time for others to learn more about how his life started. Over the years Madeleine’s rejection dominated his life, perhaps this story can fulfill the Christine’s desire to honor the dead.

“When I was traveling through India in my youth I met a Buddhist priest under very peculiar circumstances. I was walking along the shore of the Ganges, when a commotion was raised on a boat cruising on the river. We watched as a child fell from his mother’s arms into the water. Cry as she might, no one attempted to rescue the boy, until a young man standing next to us dove into the water and pulled the child to safety. When he held up the baby, the mother shook her head – she waved her hands at him and refused. The young man was confused. As was Erik.

_“Why will she not take her child?”_

_“In her mind, the child was meant to die. For her he is dead. Now the young man must care for him or cast him back into the river which was to have fulfilled his karma in this lifetime.”_

“Recalling this story makes clear many of the questions I had about my mother and Marie Perrault…and Father Mansart. Despite their Catholicism, Madeleine would often complain I was their burden not hers. They took her seriously because they would be my mentors and protectors.

“Essentinally, he taught me: if you change someone’s karma, you become responsible for that person.” Erik looks directly at Nadir, who raises his cup as a toast.

“What of your father?” Nadir asks.

“My father? He was an architect. It would appear his talents have been passed down to me and my children,” Erik replies, rearranging his dinner utensils. “He literally died just before I was born. My mother began her labor with me during his burial and gave birth to me in the dark hours later that night.” Hugging Emilie close to him, he whispers something in her ear bringing her to giggles, indicating he has no more to say about his parentage.

Gustave nudges the twins to slide from his lap. “I am afraid my legs are growing numb, as much as I love holding the both of you.”

Adele and Nadir open their arms and the tow-headed children run around the table to be scooped onto their laps, each of them grabbing a spice cookie from the plate on the table.

“Maman, you never speak of your mother,” Gustave says. “What was she like?”

“Mamma was beautiful and kind…and a gifted seamstress and knitter. She loved sewing and knitting and crocheting; our small cottage was filled with her handiwork, along with cupboards of sweaters and caps and socks for all of us. It never got truly warm in Sweden, so blankets and warm clothing were always in demand.

“I was just six when she died – her name was Rebecca. “They married despite grandpappa’s objections.”

_“How can he provide for you with a violin? You are used to more. Things he cannot give you.”_

“Those things had not mattered. Pappa’s music and, more importantly, his love and how she felt about herself when she was with him, advised her decision.

“I was born soon after and our little family was complete. When I sang, Mamma said she could hear the beauty of a voice that would only improve as I grew older with the proper training.” Her gaze settles on Erik, who cocks his head in agreement accompanied by a soft chortle.

“As time went on, she lost strength, becoming increasingly weak and was soon coughing up blood. Tuberculosis. At night, I could them cry together. Pappa and I did what we could to keep her as strong as possible, but ultimately the wasting proved to be stronger.”

Christine takes a moment to contain the emotion welling up inside her – giving Joshua a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I crept into her room, pulled up a stool to sit next her bed and took her hand in mine. I remember her head was propped up by two large down pillows covered in embroidered linen. The pillow cases and a bright afghan crocheted with yarn in shades of yellow and blue were her own creations. Her long blonde hair was captured in a pair of thick braids that framed her sallow face. A face once full with cheeks flushed pink as if she were always in a state of embarrassment, Pappa could never resist pinching them and making her giggle,” Christine laughs lightly at the memory. “The disease that wracked her still young body, had aged her and her once vibrant visage was pale and haggard.

_“Mamma, Pappa is so sad.”_

_“Yes, he is missing me even before I am completely gone from him.”_

_“But you can still talk to me and to him. You are still my Mamma. You are still his alskling.”_

“Ultimately, there was nothing she could do or say to ease his grief. The cry coming from his depths was something I had never seen from him or any other living creature.

“At her burial, his tears held until the grave digger threw the first shovel of dirt into the grave, the first shovel of dirt that would complete remove my mother from our lives. The sound of the first shovel of dirt mingled with the sound of heavy drops of rain falling on the wooden coffin.

“Neither ashes to ashes, nor dust to dust – just dirt to mud, the rain assisting the diggers with their task as the earth flowed into the hole of its own will.”

_“Pappa, we must go – the rain.”_

_“I must play for my Rebecca.”_

_“At home, Pappa, the rain – it will ruin your violin.”_

_“I promised her.”_

_“She will forgive you. She is in heaven. She will hear wherever you play.”_

_“Come, little one, you are soaked. Let us get you warm and dry.”_

“We walked past the other graves, not looking back at the mound, looking instead at the sky and the bit of sunlight breaking through the black clouds.”

Shifting in Adele’s lap, Margaret raises her hand to speak.

“What it is, darling?” Christine asks, pushing aside the tears threatening to fall after telling her story.

“I am sorry about all your Mams dying.” Facing Erik and Raoul in turn, she offers her condolences to them as well.

Soft thank yous were murmured at the erstwhile young girl.

“Our Mam did not die, but we do not know where she is, Papa Erik.” From her place on Adele’s lap, she reaches her hand toward Henry, safely balanced on Nadir’s knee. He takes it, nodding for her to continue. “So five of us lost our mothers.”

“Oh, Margaret, of course, I am so sorry,” Erik says. “You are so much a part of us…I did not think…do you want to tell us about your mother and father?”

“No – just that we love them and hope they are all right,” she says, her eyes bright with affection at the man who she now calls Papa. “ _You_ are our Mam and Pa.”

“Maman and Papa.” Henry gives Erik a big grin exposing his missing front tooth.

Pushing back another round of tears that threaten her aquamarine eyes, Christine gets to her feet, hefting Joshua onto her hip, returning to her role as hostess, saying, “I believe there is some punch in the conservatory – perhaps, we can move into that room and raise a toast to all the parents remembered and honored tonight as well as those in present and future,” nodding at Meg.

Setting Emilie down, Erik gets up and takes Joshua from Christine’s arm, resting the chubby boy on his hip. “When looking at the cycle of life – and without getting too much into the religiosity of it – if our Jack-o-Lantern here is any indication – this holiday does seem to be taking on a less holy look at those who have passed – leaning toward more ghoulish ghosts and fearsome creatures...” Glancing down at the ball of sugar on a stick, the toddle is sucking on. “…and candy. I predict that in the future our little ritual tonight will be looked on in askance and confusion.”


	8. Perros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two conversations about Perros. Gustave and Raoul - Christine and Erik. Some E/C fluff.

Perros

Sunlight streams through the tall windows and the skylights in the Eyrie. The days are growing shorter so Gustave starts his day early with the Sun, a sheet of paper stretched out on the drafting table, a jar of charcoal sticks, another of pencils and, yet another of colored chalk sit beside the bottle of India ink next to the drawing in progress.

“Hardly architectural tools,” Erik comments as he looks over his son’s shoulder at the drawing he is working on. “Your sketch is really quite good…excellent, I should say.”

“You like it, Papa?” Hazel eyes look to see the same validation on his father’s face he hears in his voice. This is a new adventure for Gustave – free-style drawing – moving perhaps as far away from the precise lines and measurements required when planning even the smallest of attractions.

When the idea about a boating ride was brought up – the first thing coming to his mind was a sailboat with a billowing mainsail riding atop glorious waves, capped in white – a clear blue sky the perfect background.

“I do – this is your vision for the boating attraction?”

“Yes…and no,” Gustave says, laying down the cerulean blue stick, wiping his hands on a small towel. “I am not sure what I am envisioning would be a suitable ride for Phantasma. I should think a stationary Pirate ship or something of the like would be more in character.”

“A pirate ship does sound like fun – think of the automatons we could create to pop out of doorways or walls to frighten our guests.”

“Exactly,” Gustave agrees. “Raoul’s dream is more about the open sea and rides for small parties.”

The buzzer rings.

“Speak of the devil, as they say,” Erik says. “I suspect that is the vicomte now.”

Raoul walks into the main room, covering his eyes from the light. “Goodness, it is bright in here,” he says, “I do not recall this room ever having so much light.”

“I have been drawing and the Sun is the best light to use – that is why I asked you to be here so early.”

“Good morning, by the way,” Raoul says, “I am afraid this is a bit early for me, I seem to have left some of my manners behind under the covers.”

Erik laughs. “I totally agree. While Phantasma is open during the day – I find it more entertaining at night. Then, there is the opera, of course – theater being an evening entertainment.”

“If you want an attraction involving boat rides – it would have to be during the day.”

“You are quite right, I suppose,” Raoul says. “May I see what you have drawn?”

“It is hardly done – a work in progress…”

“This is quite good – even as a work in progress – I am impressed. It reminds me a little of Perros.”

Gustave stands back taking in his sketch. “Yes, I suppose it does. I was actually using the beach on the other side of the pier as a model. I like it because the pier acts as a natural wall to a lot of people, so that area is less populated.”

“Perros is where you met Christine,” Erik comments.

“Yes – we…my family vacationed there. Her father was playing at the inn.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

“It is, but I am not sure this is appropriate to your park.”

“What we were just discussing,” Erik says.

“So, my idea will not work?”

“Not as an attraction for Phantasma,” Erik replies. “We were thinking a Pirate Ship, though. A galleon – I think would be necessary if used as an attraction. Had you not mentioned boats, we might not have considered a new adventure.”

“Having said that,” Gustave says. “what about small party boat rides?

“We could easily carry ten to twelve people on the ketch you have drawn.”

“I was thinking more in terms of volume – not on the Atlantic – at least not for inexperienced guests in any event. The liability would be too great. The object is how many people we can move through the ride in the shortest amount of time in the safest way. Cost is always an issue – to give them a fun time for a reasonable sum and make a profit.”

“I was thinking of France.”

“Rightly so – and I am certain there is a market for what you have to offer. I do think something could be worked out – a real thrill, not something we have to conjure up. We can still look at it as an activity the hotel might offer – I suspect this was what you were used to in Perros.”

“We had our own sailboat,” Raoul responds. “Remember how we would catch the wind and fly over the water.

“I was always afraid.”

“Were you? I do not recall you saying anything,” Raoul says.

“I wanted to learn how to swim, but no one would teach me.” A film of tears form in his eyes. “I hated it.”

“I was not aware – I am sorry – truly, Gustave,” Raoul responds, resting his hand on the boy’s arm. “Some of my happiest times were spent there – I wish that had been the same for you.”

Gustave shrugs his shoulder – Raoul removes his hand.

Erik says, “Perhaps you can give Gustave some ideas about a sport we can offer to our hotel guests – those who would appreciate sailing. The daily visitors enjoy the rides – those staying for a week or more would have both the time and money for your idea.”

Gustave puts the drawing he was working on to one side on a table next to the drafting board.

Pulling it toward him, Erik asks, “May I have this, son?”

“Really?”

“Yes, I should like to have it framed – we need a new piece in the conservatory and this would be most suitable.”

“Papa!” The boy jumps up to hug his father.

“I would imagine you could sell any number of those,” Raoul says. “Who would have thought you had such gifts contained within you?”

“Maman – she always encouraged me,” Gustave replies. There is no doubt he received no such encouragement from his father – the man he believed to be is father.

“Yes, of course,” Raoul says in a rush. “I missed out on so much during those years. At least I am having some sort of second chance to know you and appreciate you. Now, let us see what we can come up with so I might make a contribution to Phantasma.”

“I shall leave the two of you to your work,” Erik says. “I will be taking this with me. Let us meet for lunch in the main dining room. That should give you several hours to come up with some ideas we can present to Nadir, Madame Giry and your mother.”

“The whole family?”

“Yes – including Meg and Darius – so long as they are married,” Erik says. “At some point, it would behoove you to address that issue.”

“This did get botched up, did it not?”

“You would know of those things,” Erik says, turning on his heel, patting the portfolio carrying the sketch. “Gustave, once again, good work.”

Gustave eyes Raoul, still flustered from the last comment his father made.

“Do you want me to make some drawings of sail boats large enough to carry a number of passengers including a crew? We would also need a dock.”

He pulls out some photographs for Raoul to look at.

“I hope we can figure a way to offer sailboat rides – utilizing my skills…that sort of thing.”

“As Papa said, when dealing with Phantasma you have to think in volume – how many people can a ride or attraction handle in a certain period of time – every person pays a fare and we need to get our money’s worth. None of the fares is much money, so numbers count. Ten or twelve people on a half-hour sail – well, we would have to charge a lot of money for that – the cost of the boat alone. We would need to hire a crew – what other services would you provide?

“You are quite a businessman – in addition to being an artist and musician.”

“Papa taught me. He built all this from a freak show – with him as the main freak.”

“I sorely underestimated him all those years ago,” Raoul says.

“You underestimate him now,” Gustave laughs. “He wants us to be friends – much as he hates the idea. He wants me to have a relationship with you. He is grateful to you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so…he loves my mother and she once loved you – he hates that, too, but he is trying to make peace in his own heart – so he will welcome your foolish idea and ask me and Squelch and anyone else he can think of to make it work for you.”

“You still think I am a fool?”

“You were full of self-pity when I was with you – I see that now. I see it in Meg. Create all sorts of mischief and then cry poor me. My father was tormented his entire life because of his face – he became mean and angry and fought back. You were pampered and petted and when confronted crumbled.”

“You do not think a person can change?”

“Of course I do – I have watched my father change.”

“But not me?”

“What has changed – you come to us with an idea that will allow you to indulge in a favorite sport of yours and get paid for it.”

“So what do you think might be a better idea?”

“Help us with the Pirate ship – you do know more about ships and the sea than any of us – your bonus would be the sailboats you really want – which is not a bad idea – it was successful in Perros.”

“That seems fair,” Raoul says, “the Pirate ship actually sounds like it might be fun.”

“You would help with the design and the building – we all pitch in with that.”

“Dirty my hands, is that what you are trying to say.”

“Not trying – that is what I am saying.”

“Phillippe misjudged you.”

“Because I played the piano?”

“Something like that.”

“Then it is likely he misjudged you as well – trouble is you believed him.”

“I did. Yes, I did.” Raoul sighs. “I was thrust upon him – when my mother died, my father went into a depression – ignored all of us, not just me. Phillippe had to be the father to me and my sisters. I suppose he resented missing out on his own childhood.”

“I am sorry about your mother…and your father. I suppose I am rather lucky to have Maman and two fathers – not that you are filling the role – still I was never without one. I always wished I could be a better son – do something to make you proud of me.”

“I suppose I was too caught up in my own disappointment – saying I am sorry is unlikely to heal any wounds, but I shall say it nonetheless,” Raoul sighs. “I am sorry. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to redeem myself.

“Well, here is your second chance,” Gustave says, pulling another chair over to the drafting table. “Take a seat – can you draw at all?”

“Actually, I can,” he says, picking a stick of charcoal from one of the jars. Taking his time, he sketches out a reasonable rendition of a pirate ship. “I have always loved the sea and all sorts of ships.”

“I remember you said something about joining the Navy.”

“I was to fulfill a commission two weeks after I found your mother again – it did not look good for our family that I did not do my duty. Phillippe had to pull some strings for me to keep my title – one is expected to give service to the crown to maintain one’s noble status.”

“You loved her very much.”

“I did…I still do.”

“Are you going to marry Meg?”

“If a divorce can be arranged – for some reason Darius is resisting,” Raoul says. “It is complicated.”

Gustave studies Raoul’s face. Despite the years, physically, he has changed little from the man he lived with for ten years. A few strands of gray mingle with the blond waves, but his face is unlined. So many of the workers at Phantasma struggle with alcohol. Nadir still works for the city keeping track of alcohol sales and he makes certain that every shop is in line with the law, so whatever the men are drinking comes from outside.

He believes Raoul is no longer indulging, maybe that is the reason he does not bear the same dull skin and dissipation of the workman. One could imagine him courting his mother if he looked then as he does now. Gustave never gave much thought to their romance – when she loved and married him. Of course there is the question of whether she still loved him when she married him. Despite their efforts to explain the machinations of their relationship – Gustave never quite understood what went on.

His life here with Papa – knowing him and loving him – opened his life to what family was – seeing what he missed in those early years. The two of them…three, actually, because Maman was also an orphan of sorts – not experiencing a real home – made a family. The past – those years in Paris meant little to him now.

Still, Raoul had him curious. A while back, he found a copy of the Oscar Wilde novel – _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ – and he immediately thought of Raoul – his youthful look, his libidinous life. The vicomte telling him he was an artist, reminded him of his musings when reading the book. He chuckles at the thought of a portrait hanging in a locked room somewhere of Raoul looking rancid and syphilitic.

“You think my comment amusing?” Raoul asks.

“I think you are amusing,” Gustave replies. “You always get into trouble, but manage to find a way out.”

“You think I do not suffer for my misdeeds?”

“Do you?”

“My heart aches every day over losing your mother – nothing in life has much value to me.”

“You created the problems long before we came here – so stop pretending everything is Papa’s fault.”

Raoul’s face breaks into what is more sneer than smile. “Your papa almost killed me.”

“Yes, I know, but he did not follow through – you also wanted him dead – so I would say that is a draw,” Gustave says. “I know he was not a good man much of his life. Like I said earlier he is trying to make up for his past. I am not so sure you are.”

“Bold words.”

“Prove me wrong.” The young man stares at the older one. A wave a gratitude floods through him and he smiles. “Let us look at these plans and make some notes.”

“Sounds fine,” Raoul says. “Rather than build a boat, we might check the boatyards up and down the coast to see if we can find something we can convert – to save money and time.”

“I like that idea.”

“I have some others,” Raoul says. “Boats and the sea are two things I do know and have experience with – perhaps that will suffice as my contrition for the past – or at least show you I am sincere in my desire to change.”

After a light knock on the door, Erik waits permission to enter.

“Come,” Christine says. A wide smile brightens her face when she sees his reflection in her vanity. “I miss the days when you entered my dressing room through the wall mirror.”

“Do you? It would take some doing – I designed those passages when the Garnier was being built for easy access for the repairmen.”

“How unromantic,” she pouts. “I am, however, pleased you found a better use for them.”

“Your memory has become quite selective, Madame,” Erik says, walking to her Cheval glass, running a hand over the oval walnut frame. “In any event, I would have a difficult time squeezing myself through this specimen – hardly a dashing, much less romantic, figure come to steal you away.”

“Yes, I suppose the door is better – for both of us – I still have my memories, though,” she sighs. Picking an earring of sapphire circled with small diamonds from her jewelry box, she puts it on, the mate already gracing the other ear. “I was not expecting you. Were you not going to have a meeting with Gustave and Raoul about the boats and what not?”

Resting the portfolio against the chaise, he moves to the vanity, leaning over to kiss her on the neck, he says running a fingertip along her spine, “I decided to leave them to themselves. Will not hurt either one of them to spend some time together.”

Shivering slightly at his touch, she stroking his cheek with the back of her hand, laughing, “I hope it does not come to blows.”

“I suspect they would be verbal and Gustave needs to speak to Raoul himself – he avoids him at every opportunity and it is unhealthy seeing as how the man is going to part of our life now.”

Rising from the bench, she faces him. “You have been reading those psychology books again.”

“He just seems ready to explode every time the vicomte is around and maybe he will get some things off his chest,” Erik says. “And you…backless?” Taking her shoulders he holds her at arm’s length to examine the blush pink chiffon gown she plans to wear for her performances at the ballroom during the fall and winter season. The bodice a panel of blue lace the same shade as her earrings, encrusted with crystals circles her waist becoming a triangular panel draped over her hip. “I rather like the way your arms are exposed – the fabric is elegant, yet alluring draped that way.”

“So you like it?” She says, posing for him, swinging her hips as she turns so the crystals sparkle in the light.

“Your ankles are showing.”

“There are pantaloons – my legs are covered,” she says holding out one leg for him to examine. “It is the newest fashion – no more corsets or bustles,” she says. “I suppose it is a little risqué, but I am singing romantic music in a ballroom – one must provide atmosphere.”

“You will certainly do that.”

“So it has your approval.”

“I was not aware you were asking for my approval – but, yes, I think it is quite lovely and you make it stunning.”

“What is in the portfolio?”

“A drawing Gustave made.” He opens the leather case and removes the sketch. “I thought we could put it in the conservatory.”

Christine’s breath catches as she ghosts her fingertips across the drawing. “Oh, Erik, it is wonderful – I had no idea he was so gifted.” Unable to look away, a memory forming in her mind’s eye. “This is the boat at Perros – Gustave must have drawn it from memory from the trips we made when he was a child. If memory serves, I believe it was the same boat Raoul sailed when he was younger.”

“Perros? I see,” Erik says, laying the drawing on the coffee table. “Happy times?”

“Not especially – not then, anyway.”

“When you first met Raoul?” His voice tight, fingers pressing a strident melody against his thighs he turns away from her toward the armoire, ostensibly to pour himself a glass of water.

Christine cocks her head, following him, she strokes his back. “Yes, when I first met Raoul – you knew we met as children.”

Finishing his drink he moves away from her again, positioning himself next to the chaise, his full attention directed to her dressing table.

“That summer was one of the few times I had someone my own age to talk to – to play with, if you will.”

“You played games?” Each word clipped.

“Of sorts, mostly we listened to stories my father told us – or he would play his violin,” she says, her voice soft, hands folded in front of her as she simply observes, no longer attempting to approach him.

“Did you sing?”

“I suppose I did,” she says.

“Did your father like him?” Each question spit out flat…toneless.

“Yes. He did. He was happy I could be with someone my own age,” she says, moving to the chaise, sitting down, looking up at him. “Raoul had no friends – I had no friends. We listened to the stories and music. When his family would go out in the boat, he would wave at me.”

“You did not go on the boat?”

“Not until we were married.”

“You were not treated as a friend by his family?”

Christine’s laugh is as harsh as it is abrupt – her music is absent. “Is this an inquisition?” Crossing her legs, she folds her hands around her knees. “We were vagabonds, Erik. Raoul was punished for spending so much time with Pappa and me. Nothing changed much once we were older. I was not one of them – as neither childhood friend nor adult wife.”

“I had not intended this to be a trial.” He shifts his focus from the wall to her face. “You make me feel almost sorry for him.”

“As we discovered the other evening – the three of us had rather lonely childhoods. Yours was by far the worst – yet we all suffered in our own way. It was a few weeks one summer. We fell in love – as children often do. When we met again, we believed we could recreate that love.”

Erik turns, his cheek wet with tears. The tension holding him rigid relaxes its grip and he crumbles onto the chaise next to her.

Christine cradles him close to her, stroking his face.

“I am sorry. There are times when the jealousy still overwhelms me. I wish I could have been at that seaside with you.”

“You are here at this seaside with me now. No one is going to take that away from either one of us.”

“You do not miss him?”

“Not at all – what a silly thought, father of my children, love of my life. My angel of music. Once you appeared, there could be no one else. I hope someday you will accept that,” she says, kissing him softly, before rising from the chaise. “In the meantime, we are mussing my gown and I should like to take it off.”

Flustered at her abrupt shift from consolation to practicality, Erik follows her lead, standing up, ordering his clothing, wringing his hands unsure of what he is supposed to do. “Of course, I interrupted you, I just wanted to show you this piece and it seems I created another tempest in a teapot.”

“Undo the hooks for me, would you?” Christine asks, turning her back to him.

Fumbling with his assigned task, he takes a deep breath, willing himself to regain his composure. “It really is a lovely gown, did I tell you that?”

Facing him again, she slides the gown from her shoulders revealing a delicate corset. “Would you mind hanging up my gown?” she asks, stepping away from the frothy chiffon, handing it to him..

“Not at all.” He fumbles with the gown, shaking it lightly before hanging it on her dressing screen. “Is there anything else…”

Whatever he was planning to say eludes him. The vision of his wife standing in front of him – her breasts bound in a brassiere little more than a bandeau and short panties trimmed in ruffled lace – belies any words he might wish to say other than, “Christine?”

“Now you.” She commands, posed with a hand perched saucily on her hip.

“Christine?”

“Is that all you are going to say – my name over and over?” Strutting toward him, she takes hold of his lapels and pulls his jacket from his shoulders.

“Can I safely assume you are no longer disappointed in my doubting you?”

“I would say that is the case, you foolish man,” she laughs. “Now disrobe and take me before I become the one feeling foolish.”

“By all means, my lady.”


	9. Open Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Gustave chat - some serious, mostly fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenging week with FFN (I do post on both sites) and computers in general for me. FFN seemed to not want anyone's stories to be read, please do read Chapter 8 - Perros as the lead in to this chapter, if you haven't already. In addition, my computer got hacked and I had to get a new engine computer for my car, too! Consequently, this chapter is considerably shorter than my usual - which may or may not be a good thing. Was looking for some humor and hope you will find it. Christine and Gustave family fluff.

“He said he still loves you,” Gustave announces as he picks up a piece of saltwater taffy from the crystal dish on the coffee table, before plopping down on the chaise in his mother’s dressing room.

“And how did that subject come up when you were supposed to be discussing a new attraction at the park,” Christine responds, brushing her hair, tangled from the surprise visit by Erik. His leave taking preceding the arrival of his son by a good fifteen minutes, allowing her time to straighten the room, replace her undergarments and cover herself with a lavender flannel dressing gown to await the arrival of the company seamstress. Rummaging through the pins and combs covering the top of the vanity, her brow furrows.

“We were talking about Perros and the boat and that sort of thing,”

“So out of the blue he tells you he still loves me?”

“Not exactly – we were talking about how he was supposed to go into the Navy, but stayed behind.”

“Because of me.” Interrupting her search, she stops to speak directly to him.

“Uncle Phillippe had to pull some strings, he said, so he could keep on being a vicomte because he did not do his military service,” he continues. “I said he must have loved you very much and he said he still did.”

“I told him to leave…to do his service.”

“But…”

Sighing deeply, she shifts her position on the bench, resting the silver-backed brush on her lap. Without any combs or pin, her hair cascades over her shoulders catching the light to pick up rich red highlights. “We became engaged based on his reporting for duty and how I felt upon his return. I called it a secret engagement, but it was really a make-believe engagement. I was not certain I wanted to marry him or anyone for that matter.”

Turning back to face the mirror, she puts the brush down and, with a silver comb, begins parting her hair, sectioning and pinning it into a chignon at the nape of her neck. “I wanted to sing – with Erik’s lessons my voice was becoming what I dreamed it could be and with his support, I was performing I thought the time apart would help me make my decision.”

“What about Papa? I still do not understand.”

“What do you not understand?” Her aquamarine eyes meet his of hazel in the mirror.

“How you could love Papa, but still promise to marry Raoul.”

“That was the problem, I loved your Papa – more than I even understood. He was a part of me.” Abandoning the hairdressing, she focuses on the face of her son, wanting to explain the complex emotions she was experiencing during that time in her life. So young and unsure.

Raoul was the choice most of the girls in the troupe would have chosen, no question. Handsome, a noble, no less, wealthy, and seemingly madly in love with her. None of them was aware of Erik…of her bond to the Opera Ghost. Madame Giry and Meg may have suspected some goings on, but she confided nothing to them – only Raoul knew. “We spent much time together, with my lessons, but also talking – he was my best friend – I could talk to him about anything. There were no times happier in my life than when I was with your father, but he thought he was too ugly for me to care for him.”

“Was he?”

“Maybe. Then. Raoul said if Erik had the face even of a normal homely man, I would choose him without a second thought.” A cynical laugh escapes her lips. “Petty, I know. I was young and inexperienced. Beauty, physical beauty was important to me. Erik knew this – if anyone knew how beauty affected others, it was he.”

“What happened?”

“Erik was worried I would commit to Raoul and only asked me to tell him if I chose him.”

“You did not tell him?”

She shakes her head. “No, because there was nothing to tell – not really.”

“Maman! You told Raoul you would marry him, but did not mean it. Then you told Papa you would not choose Raoul without telling him.” Gustave falls back on the chaise, laughing. “You lied to both of them.”

Blood rushes to her face, beads of perspiration forming around her hair line. Could all the anger and threats and fear been avoided had she been honest to both men? All the years of hurt and anger, her doing. Gustave put into words what she consistently pushed to the back of her mind when thinking of the past.

“I did not lie – I told Raoul our engagement was not real. If it was not real, then there was no reason to tell Erik.”

“You are blushing – you only blush when you are fibbing.”

“The room is warm.” Dropping her eyes, their connection broken, she returns to dressing her hair.

“In the book, Christine tells Raoul not to ask such questions – also that she would not marry him – or anyone.”

“There is truth to that, as I just told you,” she says. “There was a lot of truth in the book.”

“I do not think Raoul being here is a good idea.”

“Why?”

“None of us wants him here – not really,” Gustave mutters. “I do not trust him.”

“You did not enjoy your time together?” Hairdo in place, she begins poking through the drawers of her jewelry box.

“We actually had an enjoyable meeting – he is likable enough,” the boy admits. “He draws – did you know that?”

“No – he never mentioned a love of drawing – I only know he loved the sea.”

“Papa liked my drawing.”

“Yes, I know, he brought it to show me, he wants to have it framed to hang in the house.”

“He was here?”

“Yes, he only stayed long enough to show me the drawing.” Catching her face in the mirror, seeing her color heighten. The ferreting about through her jewels intensifies.

Gustave examines his mother’s face and her seeming search for a lost item. Chuckling, he shakes his head, shifting his eyes to the dressing screen. “Did you say you were waiting for Jeannette?”

“No, I do not recall saying so, but that is the case.” She pushes her bench back to check the floor.

“Usually you are already wearing the dress being altered.” Shifting his position on the chaise, he lets out a small yelp, running his hand under his hip. Sitting up, he retrieves the sapphire earring offending his rump. Grinning, he cocks his head toward the chiffon gown. “It is really beautiful.”

“I was interrupted by your father, as I mentioned,” she says, her response clipped. “We spent quite a bit of time talking about Perros.”

“Here on the chaise?”

“I believe we may have been sitting on the chaise, why?”

“Is this what you are looking for?” he asks, holding up the gemstone.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” she responds, her lips pressed into a straight line, she holds out her hand.

Leaping to his feet, Gustave delivers the earring to her, dropping it into her palm.

“Thank you.” Finding the mate on the dressing table, she puts them on. “What do you think?”

“The earrings? Stunning. They go well with the dress if that is your plan.”

“It is.”

“Does Papa know about the boat – what I was using as a model?”

“Yes, thus our discussion.”

“What did he say?”

“That he would prefer we not hang it in such a well-used place as the conservatory,” she laughs.

“I want to give it to Raoul,” Gustave replies. “Framed…all of that…but I do not want it in our house and I doubt you or Papa wants it there either.

“No, you are correct…and I think he would appreciate the gift,” she says. “More to the point – what sort of plan did you make with him about Phantasma?”

“We are going to try to find an old schooner to convert into a pirate ship – or at least as a framework – with other buildings around it to fill out the attraction.”

“What about the sailboat rides.”

“Only after we finish the Pirate ship.”

“You cut a mean deal, as your father would say.”

“I hope he gets bored with something that will actually make some money and moves on.”

“Gustave – he may not have been the best father – I know that – but that was as much my fault as his.”

“Whatever the reason, Maman, I do not want him in my life and I doubt Papa does either,” Gustave says, returning to his seat. “Do you?”

Christine shakes her head. Their lives were moving along smoothly, the children were a challenge, as always, but happily so. The business with the book was unsettling, but everyone was trying to make the best of things – on a practical level – there was enough distance between New York and Paris that no connections were made to a masked fictional character and a masked amusement park entrepreneur. Erik was even writing an opera based on the story. There were enough differences between the author’s interpretation and the reality for him to insert his own impressions both story-wise and musically.

A light knock on the door interrupts their conversation.

“Who is it?” Christine asks.

“Jeanette, Mrs. Christine.”

“Open the door for Jeanette,” she says. “I think your father went to see the carpenter about framing your drawing. You might want to tell him what we discussed – about its disposition.”

Gustave gets up, grabs a few more pieces of candy and walks to the door. “Hello, Jeannette,” he says to the tiny woman, her graying hair piled into a bun on top of her head, a pin cushion strapped to her wrist.

“Master Gustave,” she says, walking past him, looking Christine up and down before noticing the dress hanging on the dressing screen. The cock of her head a question.

“Mr. Y interrupted me as I was planning to don the costume,” Christine mutters, casting a look at her son. “He wanted to show me a sketch Gustave made. He is leaving now to deal with the framing.”

“Yes.” Gustave grins at her, before popping a candy into his mouth. “I was just going to visit Adolph to see if Papa is there.”

“Actually, he is in wardrobe, apparently he split a seam in his trousers – something about dropping the sketch he was carrying and bending over too quickly,” Jeanette says, repressing the smile rounding her plump cheeks. “You are more likely to find him there than in carpentry.”

“Well, then, thank you for the information – best be off before he moves on again,” Christine says, waving Gustave off before moving behind the dressing screen. “Now, Jeanette, I hope you do not mind waiting a moment while I put the dress on.”

“No, Missus,” she says, exchanging a smile with Gustave as he exits. “Take your time.”


	10. Unforgettable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Raoul-themed chapter - 3 segments. The first with Darius, the next as a topic of conversation among Erik, Nadir and Adele. The last a chance meeting with Christine on her way to join Erik and the others for luncheon.

“No.”

“Just that…no. No explanation?” Raoul says, sitting back in the armchair across from the carved wooden desk in Darius’ office. The room is dark with heavy bookcases filled with, from what Raoul can tell, books related primarily to the topic of the human mind. The tall window behind the desk is curtained with deep maroon velvet, adding to the gloom.

“She is my wife and I have no interest in a divorce – for her protection as much as anything else.”

“You seldom speak.”

“What do you know of our communications?”

“I live with her for one thing and we do talk – about you and your…situation…relationship…whatever you wish to call it.”

“It is called a marriage.” Darius rises from the desk, holding his prosthetic hand close to his body.

Raoul does not leave his chair despite the implied suggestion their meeting is over. “Why? You do not love her – you love Yasmin.”

“You do not know what I feel, so stop pretending you understand the situation,” Darius replies, moving to a bookcase holding a pitcher of water and several glasses. “Water?”

“No, thank you,” Raoul answers. “I am serious. I want to marry her – to give our child a name.”

“The child will have a name.”

“He is not yours.”

“He or she is most certainly mine, legally.”

“Again I ask why?”

“Because you are a misanthrope, a malcontent, a man in name only. Is that clear enough?” Darius moves from behind his desk to circle the room – catlike in his movements.

After attempt to follow the Persian with his eyes, Raoul decides to simply stay put in the chair. The conversation has not gone in a directoin he expected. What seemed a simple solution to the problem as he saw it – he and Meg lived together and she was pregnant with his child – however, unlikely that condition might have seemed at one time. The issue of divorcing Darius sooner did not arise – he married both Meg and Yasmin under Islamic law.

“Meg is not part of their life – so why not let her have a divorce.”

“Meg and I married so she would have a protector. Her life was a shambles and our marriage gave her stability and a safe place for the treatment of her spirit and mind.”

“Meaning you lived as brother and sister.”

“Meaning our marriage was a contract both of us agreed upon. She would never be without a safe place to live, her physical needs provided for. You are well aware of her financial interest in Phantasma – I suspect that is one of the reasons you are anxious to settle this.”

“Give me some credit – I am pursuing a business situation with Erik that will more than provide for a family.”

“And if that fails, Meg has her investment.”

Raoul’s face burns bright red. “I am a French noble and a man of property.”

“With a brother who controls the purse strings – we are all aware of your financial situation.”

“You cannot keep her from getting a divorce.”

“No, I cannot. You are correct. Meg can divorce me anytime she wishes and she knows that very well.” Darius returns to the desk standing behind the chair, gripping the heavy leather, staring at the man seated opposite him. So very different in appearance – one with the dark hair and skin of his Persian birth – full lips and deep emerald eyes shaded with thick curled lashes. The other blonde, fair skinned with eyes the color of ice. One a man of passion, faith and responsibility – the other bred to be served, but now adrift in the sea of finding his way later in life and as unsure as a child learning to walk in many ways.

Why on earth was he here, practically begging him for a divorce? Why was this not being addressed with Meg? Darius’ annoyance came as much from that reality as Raoul insisting on this man-to-man discussion. He would be most pleased if Meg relieved him of his commitment to her, but this visit suggests she is still concerned about the vicomte and he would never betray her trust.

“I have no desire or need to divorce her – I am perfectly willing to support her and care for her child – to ensure her safety and comfort. That was my promise to her. I had no intention of pressing any more damage on her than she already suffered in her mental situation. I am perfectly content to maintain that role for her. I love her.”

Raoul frowns. “She can divorce you?”

“At any time she wishes.”

“But she will not?”

“I told you – we married for her safety,” Darius says. “She obviously does not feel entirely safe with you. You should be having this discussion with Meg. I will abide by her wishes. You must understand, however, that Nadir and her mother, not to mention Erik, will be most cautious about how much control you will be given over her finances. They trusted I would not take advantage of her. That, sir, is the bridge you must cross.”

Raoul rises, running a hand through his hair. “This has certainly been an education. I now understand some of the sideway looks I receive when I speak of marriage.”

“Meg has little trust of men – the marriage to me was what she needed to heal from many years of abuse. Perhaps enough time has passed whereby she feels comfortable leaving our arrangement.”

“I suppose I should find that out.”

“If you are sincere she will know.”

"So how is the pirate ship come boat ride attraction developing, if I might be so bold to ask?” Nadir asks, picking up a muffin from a plate sitting on the coffee table in the library of the Eyrie.

“I did not hear the bell,” Erik says, looking down from the ladder, allowing him to search the top shelves of the bookcase taking up one wall of the large room.

“That is because I did not ring the bell – the door was unlocked, so I just came in - I assumed I was expected.”

“Nevertheless, there are times when I sorely miss my dwelling beneath the Garnier – if someone tried to access the place without my knowing it, they would likely suffer an injury of some sort, if not their death.”

“Erik!”

The former Phantom laughs. “It was part of my mystique – there were any number of traps – I sought privacy and did my best to ensure it.”

“Buquet?”

“He would search the tunnels for me – almost a game between us. It was amusing to jump out from a passageway. Surprisingly, there was very little entertainment to be had at the opera house. Having such a willing foil was, dare I say it…fun?”

“But he died.”

“That he did – fell on some broken steps and broke his neck.”

“You were blamed for his death.”

“I was.”

“But…”

“But, what? He was a fool and deserved to die. He tormented the rats…the ballet girls.”

“Christine?”

“Yes.”

“Did you plan his death?”

“Getting personal, are you? Why the questions about Buquet,” Erik says “It was an accident as I just explained. The stairs were not kept up as well as they might have been – especially in the lower levels. I found him twisted on a pile of crumbled rock.

“But you hung him from the flies for all to see – you had to know they would think you killed him.”

“Your loving wife helped me get him up onto the stage, where we levered him up to be displayed.”

“Adele?”

“Did I hear my name?” The woman who outside her immediate family, would forever be known as Madame Giry – the name describing a woman whose severe appearance and no nonsense manner often brought a shudder to anyone who was either taught by her or worked under her – walks the short passage from the door to the library. Carrying a basket over one arm, keeping balance with her ever present staff.

“You did,” Nadir responds, rushing to her side, taking the basket to hold her elbow and assist her to the long sofa.

“In what regard might I ask? Would it be one of those things a person overhears about them they wish they had not?” Lifting her arm from Nadir’s hand, she settles herself on the couch and begins to unpack the basket. A loaf of bread, a quiche wrapped in a linen cloth, and a bag of apples.

“We were talking about Joseph Buquet,” Nadir calls over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen to gather plates and service for their luncheon.

Adele shivers at the name. “Why on earth would you be talking about him?”

“Your husband was wondering if I planned his death,” Erik says, climbing down the ladder, balancing a folder of sketches. “Is Christine coming?” After placing the sheaf of paper on the piano, he walks to the armoire to prepare their tea.

“She will be here shortly – chef was preparing some pumpkin tarts and they were not quite ready.”

“So what did you know about Buquet?” Nadir asks, placing the dishes on the table.

“I warned him to stop harassing the girls and spreading stories about the Opera Ghost. To mind his business. Neither of us was particularly upset about an evil creature dying.”

“Do you have any traps set up here?”

Erik laughs. “That would be telling now – would it not?”

“Yes, I want you to tell me.”

“After six years, why are you asking about alarms and traps and people who died from prying and sticking their noses where they did not belong?”

“Raoul has me concerned.”

“You think I am planning to engineer an accident for him?”

“To be frank, I wish you would.”

“Nadir!”

“Daroga, I am shocked.”

“He is up to no good.”

“You sound like Gustave.”

“Gustave does not trust him?”

“None of us wants him here,” Erik says. “He makes Christine uncomfortable. Gustave told her that the vicomte said he still loves her.”

“I hope Meg does not find out about that,” Adele says.

“She would be better off without him if what Gustave says is true,” Nadir says, “Do you really want her to marry him?”

“Of course not – not if what Gustave says is true.”

“How does that make you feel?” Nadir asks Erik, picking at the crust of the egg and spinach dish.

“Like I wish I had finished him off when I had the chance,” he chuckles.

“What do you find funny about this?”

“What do you want from me, old friend? I am not going to kill him – however much we all want him gone. I have no idea why Meg took up with him, but she did and now we seem to be stuck with him here. His confession might help, but I fear it would only hurt Meg even more and would not be helpful to her relationship with Christine.”

Adele gets up and walks to the window overlooking the main street. “I wonder where she is – she should have been here by now.”

Erik and Nadir follow her. “There she is,” Nadir says.

“Is that Raoul with her?” Adele asks.

“So it appears,” Erik says, striding to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To help my wife carry her burden of pumpkin tarts, of course,” he says, shrugging on his overcoat, as he closes the door behind him.

“I hope Raoul stops trying to put his hands on her in whatever way he can before Erik reaches the sidewalk.” Nadir says, leaning forward as far as he can to watch the small drama being acted out on the street.

“He was always a rash fool,” Adele comments, leaning against her husband’s shoulder.

“Really, Raoul, I can manage, it is simply a plate of small pies,” Christine says, pulling the platter from the vicomte’s grasp.

“Dessert?”

“Yes, I am meeting Erik for luncheon,” she says, taking full possession of her pastries with one swift tug while increasing her pace. “Do not let me keep you.”

“You are not – I was going to have a meal before returning to my…our rooms,” he says. “We have not seen each other since All Hallow’s Eve.”

“It is not as though we see one another on a regular basis,” she replies. “I hope Meg’s health is continuing to improve.”

“She is fine.” Taking her arm, he stops her progression. “I miss you. I miss seeing your face every day, talking to you, being with you…I shall never understand this...” Waving his arm at the expanse of acres of rides and attractions and seaside that is Phantasma.

Following the arc of his hand, she breathes deeply of the brisk ocean air while taking in the view of her world – the world of her family and friends – her home. Pulling her arm away, she says, “It has been six…almost seven years since our marriage ended, Raoul, and the years before are not filled with fond memories for either of us…I am not sure what you miss or what you do not understand.”

“Him, I do not understand him – why you chose _him_.”

“You do not have to understand _him_.” A sharp edge cuts into her usual gentle speaking voice. “We are married and have five children. He is my husband and I am very happy with my life. That is all you need to understand.”

“I am very well aware of your marital status and how many children you have – particularly those he fathered. You know I have been working with Gustave on the new business proposition?”

She nods.

“It brought back memories of Perros.”

“I understand that – I recognized the boat he drew. My own memories were stirred,” she says, pursing her lips, looking to the sky, before turning to face him directly to respond. “We were children when we first met there and, yes, my recollection of those times are happy – particularly remembering my father – the later visits were less than pleasant.”

“I just miss those things – all of them – good or bad. When we found one another again – at the Garnier.”

“Whatever you are seeking, you will not find by lingering in a time that no longer exists. You did not really know me then and you certainly do not know me now.” Offering him a gentle smile, softening her words, she says, “You need to create other good times for yourself – with Meg – your child. This is a second chance for you…”

“Christine!” Erik calls, approaching them with long strides, contained enough so he could not be accused of running, merely happy to see his wife and wishing to be with her as quickly as possible. That she is with her former husband is of no consequence.

“Erik? What are you doing down here – I was on my way with our dessert.”

“Adele was concerned – she believed you were following just behind her – yet here you are just arriving.” Erik shifts his focus to the younger man. “Raoul.”

“Erik.”

The two men face one another – unable to engage in any conversation beyond speaking the other’s given name.

Handing off the plate of pastry to her husband, Christine explains, “The tarts took longer to prepare than Chef anticipated. Raoul was in the restaurant and offered to accompany me to the theater.”

“Well, I see things are under control – the lady being no longer in distress, I shall return to my own luncheon,” Raoul says, tipping his hat, looking back at the couple just once as he retraces his steps.

“Were you looking out the window?” she says, looking up in time to see Nadir and Adele retreat from the window. “There was no need for you to rescue me.”

“Interesting choice of words,” he says. “Did you feel in need of rescue? Even the boy suggested you were in distress.”

“If carrying a small platter a hundred meters is considered a task worthy of rescue, then I suppose I am such a maiden. Any visions of himself as a fair knight come to save me from the burden I bore…willingly, mind you…evaporated when your dashing figure came bounding toward us.”

“Bounding? I assure you, I was not bounding,” Erik snorts. “Ambling, perhaps.”

“Your intent was clear, my husband,” Christine laughs. “Raoul understood immediately and hit the road as the expression goes.”

“So he _was_ pressing you?” Erik says, stopping to turn to her. “You look pale. Did he upset you?”

“Just bringing up the past again…Perros...those first days at the opera house.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe not entirely – I am terrified every time I see you two together. When I hear about Perros, my fear deepens. You loved him then. I often wonder if those memories are strong enough to entice you to leave me and our life.”

“Oh, my darling man,” Christine says, taking his arm. “What concerns me is Raoul’s determined focus on those times…the past…a past that is not what he remembers it to be. It is as though the years between then and now are irrelevant – that we are still companionable.”

“Did he say or do anything?”

She shakes her head. “I just wish he would concentrate more on the here and now.” Slipping her hand through his arm, she returns to walking toward the theater. “In keeping with that wish we ourselves have a fine meal awaiting us and I do not care for cold quiche.”


	11. My Father, My Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding chapter for Erik and Gustave over Raoul issues.

“Are you busy?” Gustave pokes his head into Madame Giry’s office. As unlike the woman as a room might be – every inch covered in frippery of some sort – plush red pillows lie on a sofa of forest green – accenting a deep red wallpaper with faint green and gold stripes line the walls. The furniture itself is of the Louis Phillippe era, heavy wood with intricate carvings. The only truly modern element is the lighting – the lamps are all ornate, but each burns an electric bulb brightening what might otherwise be a dark, confining space.

Julia looks up from her work, her cheeks flush as she smiles at him. Blonde locks tied into a pony tail, a few curls loose to frame her face belie stern work uniform she wears - a plain white blouse buttoned up to her chin, a black tie, and black gabardine skirt grazing her ankles revealing more black – stockings and boots.

Falling back in her chair, she drops her pencil and sighs, “Yes, but I am pleased at the intrusion.”

Gustave continues into the room, closing the door behind him. “Is Madame away?” he asks, looking at the door to the adjoining office.

“Yes – she has gone off to question the carpenter on the cost of some materials just purchased for…” picking up a piece of paper, reading, “…a sloop, in need of repair. Not sea worthy.”

“Oh, oh,” he says, snatching it from her hand. “She was not supposed to see that.”

“Why?”

“I ordered it for the new Pirate ship attraction.”

“Where did you find it?”

“There was an ad in the newspaper – the photograph showed exactly what we were looking for.” Pulling a folded piece of newsprint from his pocket, he shows it to her. “Quite something, is it not?”

“I suppose – the picture is not very clear – it is quite dark and there are no details.” Handing the paper back to him, she asks, “Did you see it in person?”

“No, but it was exactly what I had in mind to use as a base for the ride.”

“Does your father know?”

Gustave shakes his head. “No one knows…well except for Raoul…he found the advertisement. I used Papa’s name on the order – since it was being delivered here…”

“Well, they want payment on delivery – how are you planning to take care of that?”

“I wanted to tell Papa first – I cannot believe the invoice is here already.”

“It was hand delivered.” Holding her hand out, she says, “Give it back to me, Madame will be angry if she thinks I gave it to you.”

“Once I talk to Papa, he will explain it to her.”

“I doubt he can explain why I would give you the bill – or even tell you about it,” she argues. “This is my first real job, I cannot be put in jeopardy because of you. Give it back to me, she rises from the chair and moves around the desk trying to grab the paper back.

As she presses up closer to him, frustrated at his moving the paper from hand to hand, over her head and around his back, he kisses her.

Stepping back, she slaps his face. “You think you can come in here, disrupt my work and take something that might get me fired and expect me to warm to your kiss.” Tears form in her blue eyes. “Get out – take your folly and get out.”

Deflated – any sort of playfulness swallowed up in shame. He places the invoice back on her desk. “I am sorry, I was not thinking. I would never wish to hurt you or your job here.”

“Thank you,” she returns to her seat, sliding the invoice in a drawer, then puta her already orderly desk in better order – taking the time to quiet her agitation. Finally, she asks, “What are you going to do?”

“I best find Papa and tell him,” he says, returning to the door. “I am sorry I was so forward – I meant no harm, I only wanted to…I want to spend some time with you. We never see one another anymore, it seems.”

“If you are not put into isolation after this incident, I have a half day tomorrow,” she says, dimpling, lowering her thick lashes.

The dark mood threatening to take him over, dissipates immediately at her invitation. “Tomorrow, then,” he says, crossing his fingers as he leaves. “Wish me luck.”

“If you are not locked up in the pokey as punishment,” she calls after him.

Unable to calculate how long Madame Giry has been with Arnold, the head carpenter, he opts to speak with his father first. Knowing both of them – he is not certain if he will survive this incident unscathed whomever hears his story first.

Madame Giry stands in the doorway of the carpenter shop, tapping her stick rhythmically against the oak floor. She has been in the wood shop only long enough for Alfred to engage in his protests and feelings of indignation. After years of experience, she finds it best to allow him his arguments before attempting a rational conversation. Always the perfectionist, Alfred took every question personally and believes the best defense is defending himself.

“I did not order this what you call _sloop_ ,” he says. “Why I order something I do not know what is?”

“It is a boat – a very large, expensive boat that is not even sea worthy,” she counters.

“Why I order boat – I build rides, fix buildings.

“I did not say you ordered the boat. I asked _if_ you ordered it – which is very different.”

“If need boat, I build.” He face purples deeper and deeper as he argues. “Over Luna Park they have ride with boats, maybe it is their boat.”

“It is not that kind of boat – this one is for the ocean – for sailing.”

“I do not know then. Just not me.”

“Then do you know who did?”

“Mr. Y?” He shrugs.

“He would tell me – we are planning a new attraction.”

“Yes, pirates. We build what he draws, like always. Leading her to a drafting table he shows her architectural drawings of a large building, the exterior resembling a pirate’s schooner with plans for the interiors. “No old junk. New. No sloop boat.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Harrumph,” he growls, returning to his work table.

“I am going to have to put a trap outside that door – does no one ring a bell or even take a moment to knock anymore?” Erik grumbles, looking up from the large sheets of paper he has been shuffling through on his drafting table. “Who is it?”

Storming into the room as best she can with the help of her cane, she says, in a most sarcastic tone, “It is I – the keeper of the purse for Phantasma – the person appointed by consent of each investor into this amusement park to be responsible for all purchases and payments to vendors for such purchases – or at least that was what my understand was until today.”

In all their years of acquaintance, he seldom saw her quite so undone. The level of sarcasm was tinged with hurt. This is not to say she was never in bad temper. In truth, her natural essence was one of criticism and seeing the negative more often than the other way around. Perfection was bred into her as much as her refusal to wear anything other than black or to alter a hair style chosen when she was a young ballerina to keep her long, dark locks under control. A quality many people found difficult to live with – especially her daughter.

The daroga, however, unlatched the key to her heart revealing her charming and amusing nature, thus giving her the permission for others to see those qualities as well. Erik often wishes the Persian came into their lives sooner. The very lack of control she is expressing now finds him slightly amused and very curious. Anger mixed with hurt – much like the tiger Darius rescued during the fire. Best he keep his distance – figuratively, if not literally.

“Judging from your tone, someone made a purchase without your approval,” Erik responds, the ghost of a smile on his face. “A significant purchase if I were to guess. Who did it?”

“You. Or someone pretending to be you. Your name is on the invoice.”

“What invoice might that be?”

“It is in the office – I left in a rush and did not bring it with me. We received a bill for a sloop and not even a new sloop, which might make some sense. An unseaworthy sloop for the sum of $1000 C.O.D. to be delivered tomorrow.”

Erik frowns. “I made no such purchase.”

“Then who?”

Running steps sound in the passageway from the door into the Eyrie.

“Yet another rude human being invading my territory,” Erik mutters. “Who is it now?” He roars.

“Gustave, Papa,” the boy says, catching his breath, holding up a piece of paper. “I need to speak with you.” He stops short when he sees Adele standing with both hands propped on the head of her staff. The look on her face advising him anything he says will not be greeted warmly.

“Can it wait? Madame Giry and I were just discussing some financial business.”

Releasing the breath he has been holding, Gustave smiles, ducking his head, preparing to make his exit. “Of course, Papa, I shall come back later – after luncheon. Would that be convenient? Any time you wish.”

Erik raises his eyebrow and holds up a hand. “Wait? You were so anxious to speak to me, you were out of breath coming in here. I do not think Adele would mind my taking a moment to hear what you are anxious about.” To Adele, he says, “I believe we have the answer to our question.”

“It is all right, really, Papa,” Gustave protests, jamming the paper into his pocket, he backs up on his way to the door. “It can wait.”

Adele purses her lips as she catches Erik’s eye, cocking her head to the boy’s actions. “I agree. Gustave, please tell your father what has you so flustered, I could not live with myself if I believed you were in crisis and I prevented you receiving aid.”

“It is nothing really. Nothing at all.” Making one last attempt to reach the door before his father raises his voice again to stop him, Gustave gives each of them his best smile. “Actually, I believe I am supposed to meet with Raoul about now to discuss…”

“A run down sloop to be delivered to Phantasma tomorrow with a price of $1,000 attached to it?” Erik asks.

“Raoul?” Adele asks. “What does he have to do with this? I thought we were building a Pirate’s Treasure attraction – not a real boat – illusion, as always. Alfred just showed me some of the plans.”

“What is this all about, son?”

“You are not angry?”

“Not yet, convince me why I should maintain my good temper,” he says. “Madame Giry has suffered enough rage and concern for all of us – however, my moods are often mercurial and I can accommodate your fear if it suits me.” Taking a seat in his leather armchair. “Sit – both of you.”

Gustave takes one end of the long sofa, Adele the other, they side-eye one another, neither seeming prone to open the conversation.

“Gustave?”

“What?”

“Do not play stupid – of the three of us sitting here, I suspect you know exactly what the invoice Madame Giry is apoplectic about, what it is for, how it came into being and how someone other than Phantasma was going to pay for it.”

“Did you go to my office before coming here?” Adele asks him.

Gustave grunts his response.

“You hoped you could get the invoice before I could see it?”

He shrugs.

“Gustave,” Erik says, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. “Were you trying to hide it?”

“You tried to get Julia to help you?” Adele says, her tone angry.

Gustave casts a sharp look at her. “No, I would not hurt her.”

Erik’s eyes narrows. “You did try to use her – I can tell when you are lying. Why mention hurting her? She told you it would hurt her. You seem more concerned about your own state.”

“That damned Raoul,” Adele says. “What did he tell you?”

“I was just trying to help him – he really wants to be a success and be welcomed here.”

“So you think buying a very expensive boat, then trying to conceal the purchase would make everyone love and trust him?” Erik asks. “I assume you were going to hide the invoice because the money was to be provided by another source before we found out about it.”

“Something like that,” Gustave mumbles. “He was supposed to get a wire from his brother. It was expected yesterday, but he told me that sometimes these things get held up.”

“So you were sent to find the bill to hold off our knowledge a little longer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just the other day you told me you did not trust him – what brought about this sudden change of heart.”

“He wanted to surprise Meg – to show her he could do something right,” Gustave says, folding into himself. “I thought if he and Meg could make things right between them, he would change. I always keep thinking he can change.”

Erik goes to the telephone. “Connect me to the concierge.” Tapping a rhythm on the table, rapid and angry while he waits. “Yes. This is Mr. Y. Has a cable come through for the vicomte – a wire for funds, perhaps?” Turning to Gustave and Madame, he places his hand over the receiver. “A cable from his brother – no money.” Speaking to the concierge again, “Has he collected the message yet?” With a short nod, he says, “Thank you,” and hangs up the receiver.

“He picked up a cable from his brother about half an hour ago – the concierge said he has haunted the desk since yesterday. There were no funds wired.”

“So he was trying to be honorable,” Gustave says.

“Honorable would be to have the money beforehand and not ask a young man to lie to his father and business partner about making a purchase without their knowledge.”

Adele gets up from the sofa. “What do you want me to do…about the delivery?”

“Pay them.”

“As you wish.” Only her widened eyes suggest any emotion. “I shall take care of it now – if Raoul asks?”

“Refer him to me.”

“Very well.” The conversation ended, she takes her leave without further comment.

Erik moves to the window, looking out on the ocean – already churning the angry white caps announcing the change in weather – a reflection of his mood, yet, calming him at the same time. The years spent beneath the opera house were made almost bearable by the pseudo-lake outside his door. The Atlantic was infinitely more satisfactory when dealing with his frustrations. What was this business between Gustave and Raoul? Had he made an error encouraging the boy to make peace with the vicomte? Was he going to lose him?

“Papa?” Gustave’s hazel eyes brim with tears. “I am sorry – I just wanted to help. He was so excited about having a chance to do something himself for once.”

“He said that to you?” What was this pain he was feeling so deep inside of him, crushing his chest affecting his breathing. All these years being a good father to this beautiful child – his son – and Gustave was still trying to please the man who rejected him. He should have known.

How like him Gustave is – was Raoul any less cruel to an innocent child than Madeleine? Why was he feeling this emotion he could only identify as jealousy? This horrid selfish human being still disrupting his life – hurting those he loves. Using the story his life to gain a moment of acclaim, then scorn from the social set in Paris with the book. Pressing himself on Christine. Now, Gustave – using the boy to buy a boat. A damned boat. Did the fool have no awareness if it was not for his good will, he would not find himself welcome at Phantasma – Meg’s interest in him be damned?

“Has he provided any suggestions for the Pirate Ship attraction?”

The boy shakes his head. “I showed him some of your drawings. He likes them, but…” Gustave runs to his father. “I am sorry.”

Erik opens his arms to embrace the boy who was so quickly becoming a man, pressing his son’s head to his chest. “I opened the door for him. That is the only way a vampire can get in – did you know that?”

Gustave pulls back, frowning at his father, who looks at him with a grim smile on his face. “Vampires? Raoul is a vampire – I do not understand.”

Erik guides him back to the couch, taking a seat, patting the cushion next to him for Gustave to join him. “In literature vampires are presented as dark creatures of the night who live off the blood of humans – literally.”

“Like Dracula.”

“Yes,” Erik replies. “In reality, vampires are people like Raoul – who have no talent or skills to take care of themselves, but live off the labor of other people. Reality is not as romantic as the old horror tales.”

“What did you mean about inviting them in?”

“Much as I hate to admit the weakness, I am still jealous of him…I wanted to appear the better man.”

“Why, Papa? Maman?”

“Your mother, yes. You – this incident.” Rising again, he says, “I am going to have a small brandy – would you like a root beer?”

Gustave nods, folding his legs under him. “I wanted you to be happy – to not be angry anymore. I thought if I helped him, he could make up for being mean to Maman.”

Handing Gustave his drink, Erik returns to his seat next to him, swirling the brandy in his snifter, breathing in the fragrance of the amber liquid, before taking a small sip. “What about him loving you?”

Gustave lowers his head. “I suppose you are right,” he says. “I never knew what was wrong with me – why he did not love me. I asked Maman, she told me to look with my heart.”

“And what did your heart tell you?”

“That he did not love me,” Gustave give a short, rough laugh. “Why do we do that, Papa, try to make people love us when they do not?”

“It was the same with my own mother,” Erik says. “One small kiss was all I ever wanted.”

“She never kissed you?” He places his hand on his father’s, their fingers entwine, almost matching in length.

“Your mother was the first person to kiss me.”

“She did not love him,” Gustave asserts, taking a deep swig of his soda.

“Oh, but she did...then.”

“No, Papa. I know. She was always sad – she would try to be cheerful – when she was with me, she was fine, but with him…well…”

“And now?”

“Oh, she is very happy, except when he is around.” Straightening up in his seat, he turns to face Erik. “I wanted to make him happy with the boat so he would have something to make him smile. Everyone is so gloomy when he is around. If he loved me because I helped – that would be nice, too.”

Erik wraps his arm around the boy, kissing him on the forehead. “You are your mother’s son.”

“No – you are kind as well, Papa, you are good.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “So, what are we to do about the money owed for this boat?”

“I will pay it back – from my savings.”

“You have savings?”

“For a car – I have been saving for a car.”

Erik raises his eyebrow and smiles at his son. “Have you now? You would give Adele the money?”

Gustave nods, happy for Erik’s pleasure at the news.

“You did not have to tell me about your thrift.”

“I know.”

“Do you think he will pay you back?”

“If he wants the boat, he will. Otherwise, it is my boat...or will be. I will fix it up and sell it for a profit, then I will buy my automobile.”

“What if he gives you the money?”

“Where will he get it?”

“Meg?”

“She should not give it to him.”

“But, if she does?”

“Then he can have the boat, but he has to pay for all the repairs. If he wants to give boat rides, he has to work for it.”

“You seem to have thought this through – I am impressed.” Erik gets up. “Another root beer – or shall we get something to eat?”

“Food…and a root beer.” Gustave jumps to his feet and heads toward the door. “I am starving.”

“Hold on,” Erik laughs. “I do not have the same energy you have.”

“Sorry.” He stops to wait for his father.

“One thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No more secrets – you see how many people were upset by this – even though you meant no harm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good – now food – something warm – looking at the ocean just now, I felt the desire for a bowl of hot soup.”

“Or chicken pie.”

“Or chicken pie – or both.”

“I love you, Papa – I loved you the first time I saw you. I looked with my heart.”

“Did you? I am so happy you did. I loved you then, too.”


	12. A Thanksgiving Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As preparations are being made for the annual Thanksgiving dinner for the Phantasma, a unexpected visitor arrives surprising Christine confirming how wonderful her life is now.

“Mrs. Christine, let me help you,” Chef Andre rushes toward the mistress of Phantasma laden with four woven cornucopia stacked one upon the other.

Slightly breathless, she continues on her path into the main dining room of the hotel, she says, “I am fine, but there are more in the lobby. The shopkeeper only promised to bring them as far as the hotel and even my sweetest smile could not convince him to bring them any further.”

“Foolish man – you should have sung for him – he could have carried them to the penthouse then, had you asked him.”

“You are most kind, Chef, but I fear his ill humor would not have been pleased by any effort I might have made – although the tip I gave him calmed him somewhat.” Ending her journey at the buffet table that will hold the dinnerware for the employees’ annual Thanksgiving dinner – she lays the baskets on the table with a sigh of relief. “If you could bring the others in, I would be most appreciative.”

She is grateful for the trim new styling of her outfit, a coat of deep teal over a matching narrow skirt – no longer forced to deal with bustles and oversized skirts – although the cut of the skirt caused her some alarm when she was wrestling the cornucopia through the revolving door – not giving her much room to maneuver her feet – causing her to stumble.

Following her instructions, he trots out to the lobby, waving at one of the waiters observing the goings on. “Do not just stand there ogling us, help me bring the table decorations in from the entrance.”

The two men drag cardboard boxes carrying the rest of the baskets into the elegant room set up with tables able to seat from six to eight people already set with white linen tablecloths, rust colored runners, green and yellow napkins and place settings of silverware.

“Why was he upset, if I might ask?”

“His helper did not show up for work and he had to load and deliver the cartons himself. I told him he should have called, we would have picked them up, but I think he preferred his anger.” Surveying the room, she asks, “Do you think your staff can finish setting up the tables?”

“Of course, I would not expect it to be otherwise. Dinner is under control – one of the good things about Thanksgiving dinner is most everything is prepared in advance and we will have buffets set up for serving.” A wave of his hand indicates several tables, besides the one at the entry. Each one designated for the different courses – main courses of turkey and ham and side dishes of yams, mashed potatoes, carrots and other roasted root vegetables, and gravy. The last tables with fresh plates await pies and cookies for when dinner has been completed.

“I am happy that you and your staff will be able to join us – the buffet was a perfect idea,” Christine says, beaming at how well things were going thanks to Andre’s suggestions and her own memories of childhood Smorgasbords. “People always seem happier with their food when they can choose what they want and what they do not. My mother said it made her job easier as well.”

“Indeed it does – will everyone be here who have not gone south for the winter?”

“I believe so. We have more tables that can be set up if there are surprises?”

“Yes – and the small dining room is still open for the few guests staying the weekend.”

“Are there many? Anyone alone?”

“There are the five families that arrived by train three days ago. Three are members of the same family from different parts of the country who will be served dinner here. Two other families are staying at the hotel, but will be having their dinner with relatives in Brooklyn. And…”

“And?”

“One gentleman who arrived late last night.”

“Where did he come from?”

Andre shrugs. “I just know he registered last night and asked for room service today. Concierge says he is French.”

A shiver runs up Christine’s spine, her face flushes creating a film of moisture on her face, a wave a nausea upsets her stomach. Gripping the edge of the table to steady herself, she looks for a place to sit down.

“Are you all right, Missus?” Andre asks, taking her by the arm. “Do you want me to get Mr. Y or a brandy?”

“Both sound good, but he is likely busy, just water, though, please.”

Leading her to one of the alcoves built into the large room to provide more intimate seating. “Here, sit down, I shall bring you a glass with a few drops of Armagnac for the scent and some flavor.”

“Thank you, perhaps sitting down is the better idea – I have been rushing around.”

“You shall have your aperitif and rest assured, everything is under control here – we shall take care of the table decorations,” Andre says. “You just sit and supervise.”

Loosening the buttons of her teal green coat, exposes a ruffled blouse of a paler green with cream lace trim – the colors replicated in her peaked felt hat trimmed with feathers from a teal duck – she relaxes into the Louis Quatorze armchair, upholstered in a navy blue brocade shot through with silver threads. Wiping her brow with a linen handkerchief, she smiles.

The room does look beautiful – the fall colors liven the normal blue, silver and white tones of the formal room. This American holiday has turned out to be her favorite. No religious clashes, simply a day to give thanks for the good in their lives, particularly one another. When she arrived in New York seven years earlier, she could not imagine how happy she would be now.

This hotel housed her first experience with American hospitality and was the place her life changed once again at the will of her Angel of Music. So many changes – from being the wife of one man to becoming the wife of another – her first love, although she did not know that about him then. Their rivalry for her love played out again – once more over music. This time the music won out – as it should have then. So much heartache over poor choices and not trusting her heart.

Why would she be thinking such thoughts now, she wonders? Funny how the mind works. Why think of the past with Raoul while planning their annual Thanksgiving dinner for the staff remaining behind at the end of the season to work on new projects or repairs? Likely because Raoul would be present this year – a new addition. His presence always seeming to be out of place. This was not his world. However he tried to belong – his own behavior prevents him from inclusion. Phantasma is a world of misfits – it was created to be thus.

Even here, Erik still feels he does not belong. She senses it from him most often when simply walking through the park. Much as she tries to convince him that his presence commands attention – the power of his essence draws people’s eyes and comments – he is convinced of the opposite…that he is loathed and feared. Raoul ultimately did not fit in, but he did not fit in with the normal world either, in a different way. His noble birth tainted him – they were all outsiders, but his arrogance keeps him separated from everyone.

Why had he come back here? Nothing was right since he showed up again with his tales about the Leroux book – telling the author of their lives – putting all of them on guard against possible trouble with the authorities – although Nadir assured them it was unlikely anyone in France was still interested in the Phantom of the Opera other than a good story, particularly now with war raging on the continent. At the time, however, he went as far as contacting associates in Paris who confirmed his belief. Raoul was run out of town in a manner of speaking – no longer trusted by former associates. If his stories were even minimally true, then no one was safe from his loose tongue and vivid imagination.

So now here he is – back on Coney Island – soon to be the father of Meg Giry’s child. The woman, who almost killed the boy who for ten years he believed to be his son. If the whole affair was not verging on tragedy, the irony would be laughable. What sort of man did she once love and trust – and why could she not be rid of him?

“The man who came in late last night alone is standing just outside the dining room if you should care to see him.”

“Why would I want to see him?”

Andre shrugs. “Maybe because he looks like an older version of the Vicomte de Chagny,” he says. “When the concierge pointed him out to me, both of us agreed on the resemblance. Edward checked the register and sure enough, his name is Phillippe Comte de Chagny.”

“Dear Lord, not Phillippe.”

“I believe it is, Madame,” he says, turning to the door, “and he is headed this way.”

Tidying her hair, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, Christine straightens her dress as she stands to face her former brother-in-law.

Seeing he is not yet aware of her presence, Christine has time to assess the man she often felt to be her nemesis during her marriage to Raoul. While never outwardly cruel or even mildly rude, the ice that seemed to run through his veins…at least where she was concerned, was never in doubt.

Why her presence bothered him to such a great extent was a mystery to her. Perhaps she knew him too well – whatever the whispers were in his social circles, she knew him both as patron of the opera in public and in private. His affair with La Sorelli was common knowledge – although, she supposed the lack of a marriage bond would have put him in the same position as Raoul, leaving him without that argument against her. That he loved the dancer was never in doubt – if Sorelli suffered, she never let on – at least to the rest of the company. She was never included in the family events and Christine wondered if that was an issue between them.

Once Christine and Raoul were married, she was cut off from everyone at the Palais Garnier, except for those evenings when, as a couple, she and Raoul would view a performance. Since Madame Giry and Meg were gone, and Christine was never really close to the other girls, she was saved from hearing the gossip about the nights when Raoul attended alone – leaving her at home to tend to her son. Something she frankly preferred – even if she missed performing…missed those days with her Angel and her lessons and singing as she never believed possible despite Pappa’s assurances.

Now, here he was in her home, for Phantasma was as much her as it was Erik and Gustave – each of them adding their own touch to the park – once catering to Erik’s darker side, but now more whimsical and attractive to children and, while still offering the burlesque numbers still popular with the public, offering lighter opera and modern pieces that suited her voice and personality.

“Phillippe,” she says, walking toward him, her hand extended. “What brings you to America? More specifically, what brings you to Phantasma?”

His finely drawn face did not reflect the warmth of the smile that crossed his perfectly shaped lips. How long has it been since she questioned the sincerity of a smile? The days were long gone when each greeting was suspect, the offers of friendship merely for show. Ten years with no one to love or love her except for her son. Now her life was filled with as much as her heart could hold with enough left over for each stranger she passed on the streets of this place called Coney Island.

“Christine, lovely as always – you have hardly aged – the carnival life suits you, it would seem.”

“Indeed it does, Phillippe – as you know my father and I played fairs before I was able to study at the Conservatory and perform at the Palais Garnier. There is something honest about carnival folk – we know we are characters in a play, which makes having a normal home life that much easier. We take off our masks when we go home.”

“Even your Opera Ghost?”

“Particularly Erik – he is one of the most human among us because he has known hatred shown him because of his face. Beauty has a price, though, to be loved for how one looks often turns the person into someone so unlovable, no amount of physical beauty can redeem him…or her.”

“Are you speaking of someone in particular?”

“Just philosophizing,” she says, turning to walk back into the dining room, indicating with a wave of her hand for him to follow her. Leading him back to the small alcove where she was resting before his arrival, she takes her seat, nodding for him to join her. “Would you care for tea…or a brandy?”

“A brandy would be welcome,” he says, glancing at her snifter sitting on the small oval dining table surrounded by four Louis Quatorze armchairs upholstered in white and silver brocade.

As if on cue, Andre presents himself. “Another water, Mrs. Christine? I fear the dollop of brandy was too much.”

“The drink is satisfactory, Andre,” she says. “The Comte would like a real brandy…two fingers, Phillippe?”

With an eyebrow raised, he ignores Andre, responding to Christine, “That will be fine.”

“I understand you only arrived at Phantasma last night.”

“News travels fast here.”

“It is a small island and a much smaller park,” she laughs. “Actually we mind our own business – except when it comes to actual business – then we are nosy as can be trying to keep up or one up our competitors. The evening concierge thought you looked like Raoul and checked the register – he told Andre. I was here preparing for our Thanksgiving celebration and voila – here we are speaking as two old friends as if our meeting was planned.”

“Only speaking as friends?”

“Oh, Phillippe, my world now is one of as much honesty as possible – you have no idea how weary I became pretending to be someone I was not.”

“How is my brother faring in this land of truth and honor?”

“How would you think he is doing?”

“Not well, judging from his last cable – which is why I am here.”

“Will you be taking him back with you?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes – more than you know.”

“I wish this was the woman I knew in Paris – you are quite something – your tongue is almost as tart as Veronique’s.” Phillippe laughs, full and loud. “You are speaking truth about Raoul, are you not?”

“Is that not what I said?” Christine looks up as one of the young waiters brings Phillippe his brandy, setting it on the table in front of him. “Thank you, Freddie. Will you be here tomorrow for dinner?”

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Christine – all the wait staff is grateful we do not have to serve – if I may say so.”

“You may. I wish the kitchen staff did not have to do cooking and clean up.”

“Oh, I volunteered – to make the extra wage.”

“Then all is well.”

“Yes, Missus.” With an awkward bow, he turns and jogs back to the kitchen.

“Tomorrow is an American holiday called Thanksgiving. A great feast is prepared in honor of the first settlers, but, like many of us who came from other parts of the world – we celebrate our good fortune to be here. Many of our employees have no family as you might understand, so we all have our meal together,” she explains. “The decorations are traditional as is the food. I hope you would like to join us rather than dining alone.”

“I would be honored.”

“As for my manner or whatever you would care to call it, Veronique had the status and confidence to speak the truth – the rest of us were at the mercy of the managers, Madame Giry and the patrons. La Sorelli ruled over all of you,” Christine says, taking a sip of her water. “Since the gossip did not extend to saying you were with a companion, I assume she is still in Paris.”

“She is at home.” His blue-gray eyes, colder and harder than Raoul’s look off into a place Christine cannot see. “The war…the war brought many changes. My sisters and I returned to Perros, once France entered the war.”

“Indeed.” Not the answer she expected – either about Sorelli or the war. Phillippe was a true Frenchman – one factor, a sort of obligation to having a title and the land that went with it, was service in the military. When Raoul did not return to the Navy as promised, the family lost some of their land, but Raoul was allowed to retain his title.

“To address your comment about her qualities, though, her spirit shone through whatever damage aging may have caused physically – much like yourself – you have come into your true beauty – this life agrees with you.”

“It does.” Setting the snifter carefully down on the table, she looks up at Phillippe from under her downturned eyes. “Enough with the pleasantries – you went into the city first before coming here – why? Did you not know where Raoul was?”

“I have been in Manhattan…and knew where Raoul was. I needed to find out what he had been about before coming back here. All his communications from the past several years were from Manhattan. I have not been…settled in one place, so I have used…others to maintain communication with him, particularly what was going on with him financially and with Miss Giry. Then they seemed to just disappear.”

“Meg is pregnant.”

The shock on his face was not rehearsed – part of the reason she chose to blurt it out – was he aware of this particular thoughtless act on the part of his brother. As she suspected, Raoul was still hiding the most important reason he needed money.

“I had no idea,” Phillippe replies, taking a swig of the brandy without the ritual swirling of the liquid before sipping the liquor slowly.

“As I thought – he wanted money to buy a boat – to start a business.”

“Yes. He made it sound very appealing – the sea was the one thing he always loved and actually knew something about.” Phillippe looks around for the waiter.

Christine raises her hand signaling Freddie, who, returning to his formal role, walks swiftly yet calmly to their table, a napkin folded over one arm, awaiting their order.

“Another brandy – what was this? It was quite good.”

“Armagnac – Mr. Y’s favorite.”

“Mrs. Christine?”

“I shall have a cup of tea – the Earl Grey…sugar and…”

“Cream,” Freddie smiles and bows. “I shall be right back.”

“Mr. Y?”

“His stage name. His family and friends call him Erik. I am Mrs. Saint-Rien for formal purposes.”

“Your husband – the Opera Ghost is now Mr. Y?”

“My husband is Erik Saint-Rien who has used many stage names in his life. Is it he you wish to see?”

“Raoul said he agreed to help him get a business started here at Phantasma and had advanced him the price of a used sailboat – he needed some money from his trust to repay the loan.”

“That is close enough to the truth.”

“My contacts in New York indicated he had other debts that were paid before certain damages might have been sought against him – was that your husband’s doing?”

“The threats or the repayment of the debt?”

Phillippe laughs again as Freddie brings their refreshments. “Anything else?”

“No, we are fine, thank you,” Christine says.

“I know he paid off Raoul’s early gambling losses – that had to do with you, I believe?”

“I gave Raoul my earnings for performing here – for acting as my manager. I stayed on working here as a singer – much as I do now. You must have seen the signage.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Mr. Y, or Erik or Mr. Saint-Rien has never given any money to either my brother or to you out of the goodness of his heart.”

“That is one way of putting it.”

“How would you put it?

“Your way is fine,” she says. “Back to my question. Do you wish to meet with Erik?”

“Eventually, however, I would like Raoul to know I am here – I believe my most recent communication may have caused him some distress.”

“If you wanted that, you would have contacted him already,” Christine says. “It appears you might be interested in finding out what he might be up to first – gathering as much of the truth before confronting him with whatever story he plans to present to you.”

“True enough – we all have our stories, do we not?” Phillippe says. “So is there a chance I might meet with your husband?”

“Quite a good chance,” she says, looking toward the entry door to the dining room. “Here he is now.” Standing up, she walks up to Erik, kissing him on the cheek before taking his hand and leading him to the alcove. “Erik – this is Phillippe Comte de Chagny…Raoul’s brother…he was hoping to speak with you about the boating venture.”

“Comte,” Erik says, offering his hand as he takes a seat next to Christine. “I am pleased to discover the sirens did not have their way with you after all – particularly since I was blamed for your demise.”

Phillippe frowns.

“The book – in the book you were drowned by the sirens in the lake beneath the Opera House,” Erik replies.

“Since there were no sirens, it was assumed the Opera Ghost murdered you,” Christine laughs. “Mr. Leroux had quite an imagination.”

“As did Raoul,” Erik mutters. “There is something remotely Oedipal about that part of the tale. You risked traveling from Paris to help your brother get a business started?”

“Not exactly.”

Christine frowns. “What do you mean?”

“He means that he has not been in Paris for some time, is that not correct?”

“The war…as I mentioned.”

“You said you went to Perros.”

“Yes, I did.”

“But you did not stay?”

“We crossed the Channel to England, but I wanted to come to America. The war did not give any indication it would stop in the Balkans. My sisters and their husbands…and Veronique…we managed to find passage before it was too dangerous to travel.”

“But you never bothered to tell your brother,” Erik says.

“How long have you been here?” Christine asks, taking a sip of her tea.

“Two years,” Erik responds with a smirk.

“Yes,” Phillippe agrees, an edge to his voice. “Two years. I…we reside in Boston.”

“But Raoul thinks you are in Paris.”

“I thought it better he not know I was here.”

“Why?”

“We all know my brother.” Loosening his tie, he shrugs before taking another drink of his brandy.

“Yes. We do. You wanted to be rid of him – just as we do,” Erik says. As he gets settled, the waiter places a snifter with perfect measurement of amber liquid in front of him. “Thank you, Freddie.” Savoring the aroma of the Armagnac, he takes a sip, then asks, “So what do you want from me…us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was impossible not to introduce Phillippe into the story - allowing another dig at poor Raoul and his giving assistance to Leroux with background for his book.


	13. Family Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Raoul chapter. After a successful session with Gustave in drawing the plans for the Pirate attraction, Erik and Christine bring Phillippe to the Eyrie. The question is raised about why it has taken so long for Phillippe to get in touch with his younger brother - especially since his financial situation is once again shaky.

“You know as well as I do that the bow of a boat is tapered – with the exception of those flat things they use at Luna Park for their water ride,” Raoul says, picking up a pencil to make adjustments to the sketch Gustave is drawing. “The bow must cut the water like a knife to press forward against water and wind. The majesty of any boat, even the lowly rowing boat, is in the grace of the curves that propel it over a lake or pond or a vast ocean.”

Except for a few lights turned on for mobility purposes around the Eyrie, only one section is well lit. Gustave and Raoul work at the same drafting table. Raoul giving instructions on how a rectangular building can be made to look like a boat.

“You sound like you are talking about a girl,” Gustave chuckles, side-eyeing the man he once believed to be his father wearing a feverish look…expending a passionate energy the boy never saw in him before. Were he wont to admit it, Raoul reminds him of Papa right now – when his father is composing and lost in his music. During those times, the everyday world ceases to exist and Papa moves to a different place, somewhere only Maman has ever entered with him. The times when Gustave has attempted to grasp his own level of ecstasy, it eludes him.

_“You must simply live it…let the music flow through you, son. Once you allow that excellent intellect of yours to interfere, heaven escapes. Just allow the magic to happen.”_

“I would say that was ridiculous, except boats are historically named for women, so I will plead guilty as to being smitten by boats,” Raoul laughs softly, since he began working on this project with Gustave, there is a new energy inside him – or rather an energy he has not experienced in a very long time – the early years with Christine and, to be fair, moments now with Meg.

The sea and boats always fascinated him, but he never thought he could create one – either as a drawing or even building one. The boy was so secure in his work – measuring and plotting a series of small buildings that would comprise a larger attraction made to look like a pirate’s schooner.

Gustave simply put his pencil to the paper and whatever developed just seemed right – exactly what he intended it to be. Still, when he was putting his idea down on the rough surface of the paper, he actually felt a sense of the water and the movement of the schooner challenging the waves.

“This would go a lot faster if you did not insist on doing your _corrections_ on my rough in. I am drawing to scale, this is not art – it is mathematics…geometry. Now I have to redo the rough draft again.”

“You continue to draw rectangles and squares.”

“Precisely. We are not building a boat – the structure of the attraction must come first. The bow and the other elements to make it look like a boat are going to be attachments. Those I will draw separately unless you want try actually doing some work on this besides giving me critiques and messing up what I am doing.”

“You know I am unable to work from scratch.”

“That is ridiculous – your images are beautifully drawn and you seem to like doing it,” Gustave argues, pushing the latest ruined plan toward Raoul. “However, if you insist you are so unskilled, you can take this over to the other table and finish whatever it is you were trying to create – then we can piece the drawings together.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Raoul says, folding over the large sheet of paper, then setting it up on the table across from Gustave’s. Perhaps the boy was right, he cannot remember enjoying anything quite so much – besides actually sailing. Maybe he did have a talent of his own after so many years of envying the gifts of others.

A light is turned on in the passageway and the sound of the door closing captures Gustave’s attention. Erik told them he would return shortly and, although he was gone longer than anticipated, there is no surprise so he continues with his measurements. “Hello, Papa,” he says absently.

Raoul continues setting up his drawing, ignoring Erik’s arrival. As much as he and Gustave quarrel – they are strangely comfortable with one another. The bickering companionable and easy. Erik, on the other hand, makes him nervous – although the masked man has never made any comments positive or negative about his contribution – he is nevertheless always on guard.

With this new set-up, he hopes he and Gustave can make progress on their own without any input from anyone other than Alfred, the carpenter. This project has to work – if it does not, he is not sure what he will do. The situation with Meg is tenuous. To say he did not care for her would be a lie – the accident…having a child on the way brought them closer and he must provide for his family. If they actually loved one another, things might be easier. There were times when he felt if he knew where to go, he would run away…again. But, no. This was the end of the road – looking to the man he hated to rescue him from his own foolishness.

The Comte follows Erik and Christine from the shadows near the doorway, across the Eyrie. They pass through the library area to the section of the large room set aside as the workroom. No one says anything, which, again is no surprise, however, there is a definite tension in the air. Both Gustave and Raoul sense this is not simply Erik returning to check in on them.

Gustave is the first to look up. “Uncle Phillippe?” he says, so alarmed, his pencil digs into the paper, tearing a hole through the middle of the proposed hull.

“What?” Raoul turns around from his table to face his older brother – was this a miracle – the sight of Phillippe’s stern, but handsome face, sends a rush of hope to his heart. “Phillippe? What are you doing here?” After only a brief hesitation, he runs to his brother, pulling him into a hug. “When did you arrive? How did you get here – it must have been difficult to find passage. I was so worried…you came for me…to help me?”

Phillippe tenses up. Not moving, his eyes stare straight ahead, unable to give Raoul the succor he is demanding with his words and his embrace.

Erik and Christine separate themselves from the brothers to join Gustave at his drafting table. 

Their movement relaxes the older brother, allowing him to return the embrace, bringing Raoul closer, tousling the blond waves. “Yes, I came to help you.” Blue-gray eyes roll to the heavens. “I will always take care of you.”

Raoul steps back, a broad grin breaks on his face, he rubs away the tears flowing down his cheeks, awkwardly accepting the handkerchief the older man hands him. “I was afraid you gave up on me.”

Gustave throws a questioning look at his parents, mouthing “What is he doing here?”

“Raoul and Phillippe have matters to discuss,” Erik whispers in the boy’s ear. “Personal and business.”

“Why did you not call me,” Raoul asks. “I could have met you at the hotel – why here? Why with him?” His look at Erik borders on a sneer.

“As a general rule, brother, it is best to treat your benefactor with more grace than you are exhibiting right now,” Phillippe says, his tone cold. Whatever warmth expressed earlier is gone. “I ran into Christine and Erik – if I may call you by your first name?”

Erik nods.

“I ran into them at the hotel and since he knew where you were, offered to accompany me,” Phillippe says. “We all felt that such a surprise would be best held in a private place. I was pleased to know you were working on the project you wrote me about.”

“Of course,” Raoul says, wiping his hands on his pants, looking around for his jacket, his drawing forgotten. “Thank you both, but perhaps we could return to the hotel…to my…our apartment – Meg will be so pleased to see you. When did you arrive? There have been no ships in weeks…months that I am aware of.”

Christine raises her eyebrows at Phillippe. “Time for some truth telling, I would say.”

“What are you talking about,” Raoul frowns. “What is she talking about, Phillippe?”

Gustave tugs on his mother’s sleeve, but she ignores him. Her eyes are directed at Phillippe. Erik simply stands, a hand on her shoulder, observing the wordless interplay between the brothers and his wife.

“Perhaps we do need to discuss this in private,” Phillippe says. “I have a room booked here – we can talk there, afterward, I would be happy to see Miss Giry again.”

“She is no longer Miss Giry,” Gustave blurts out. “She is Mrs. Touloui…”

Christine pokes him in the side.

“Well, she is,” he grumbles, rubbing the sore spot.

“I think Phillippe’s suggestion is wise,” Erik says. “Gustave put your table in order. The holiday banquet is tomorrow, so I think we can make this an early day and go home.”

“We were just finally able to make some progress…”

“That is fine and you can return to your work on Friday,” Christine says, rubbing the area on his back as she admires his drawing. “This is quite good. I think you can stop here quite easily – you will have to redo the drawing in any event – what with the cut in the paper. Correct?”

“Yes, Maman.”

“Raoul, you and Phillippe can reacquaint tonight – we hope you will all be present at the banquet tomorrow,” Erik says, ushering the brothers to the door, he snatches Raoul’s jacket from the coat rack and hands it to him. “We can then plan a meeting for Friday – the three…” Checking himself, he looks at Gustave and says, “The four of us can discuss the Pirate attraction and the boat rides.”

“The boat rides, too?” Raoul asks, putting on his jacket and a tweed cap. “I was not certain…after the problem…”

“We shall discuss all of our ideas to see what might work,” Erik says. “I would assume the _problem,_ as you call it, will be one of the topics you cover with your brother.”

“I suppose that is all right then.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Phillippe says. “Come, brother, we have much to discuss I am curious about this problem you are alluding to. Is dinner being served in the dining room?”

“Um, Meg and I usually eat in our suite – I would not wish to disturb her routine,” Raoul says, perhaps we can talk in your room and you can join us – I only need to advise her.”

Phillippe smiles. “Nice you are considering her needs. Your plan sounds fine to me,” he says. “Erik, Christine…Gustave – you have become quite a young man – thank you for your hospitality. We shall see you tomorrow then, as suggested.”

With that, the brothers leave, Erik closes the door behind them, pressing his back against the door. He cover his mouth to temper the roar of amusement threatening to explode from his gut, his walk resembling a stumble as he returns to the work area to rest his arms on Christine’s shoulders, letting his laugh break loose.

Christine cannot restrain her giggles and, although still confused about what just happened, Gustave laughs lightly as he examines the faces of his parents. “What is so funny? I did not hear anything funny.”

“Oh, to be able to walk through walls again,” Erik says, catching his breath, sitting on the stool in front of Raoul’s drafting table.

At this Christine’s giggles turn to outright laughter, getting Erik started again.

“Now I am really confused, Papa…Maman. Tell me. What is so funny?” Gustave asks. “We walk through walls all the time here in the park – you built all the attractions that way.” Turning his drawing for Erik to look at, he points out the different secret passages he has drawn into the schooner.

“Yes, son, but those walls are not for discovering secrets,” Erik says. “Of course, neither were the passages built into the Garnier.

“They were excellent, however, for giving music lessons,” Christine adds.

“True enough,” Erik says, leaning forward to look at Raoul’s work. “This is quite good – did he draw this or is this yours?”

Christine and Gustave join him in admiring Raoul’s work. “His – he was really excited about working on it. When he talked about how great boats were, I told him he sounded like he was talking about a girl.”

“The drawing is really excellent,” Christine says. “I would never have thought he had such a gift, he certainly never expressed it.”

“Well, he definitely loves boats – at least he loves this one,” Erik comments. “Looking back, perhaps had I offered him the skiff that night, he might have simply taken the offer and left – leaving you to your fate.”

“Very funny,” Christine says, slapping him on the arm.

“What are you two talking about?” Gustave whines. “I really hate it when you go off on your grown up stuff and refuse to explain what you are talking about.”

“It is pri…”

“Private…I know, I know, it is private and I will know more about such things when I am older,” he chuffs. “Can we go now? I am hungry.”

“Hmmm, I believe this is the evening when Julia helps Helen with the household books,” Christine says, winking at Erik. “Maybe you can relieve her of her duties and meet us at the automobile.”

“Yes, we best be finding our way home – they will be wanting some funds,” Erik says. “And, of course, Gustave needs his dinner.”

Pushing past them, Gustave storms toward the door, “I will be waiting in the car with Julia. Try not to take too long. You two. You tell me I act childish.”

“We shall be right there,” Erik calls after him.

“Right.” The sound of the door slamming brings about another bout of laughter from the couple.

“We should not tease him so much,” Christine says.

“He likes it – his indignity allows him to feel superior to us – and infinitely more mature.”

“Do you really think Raoul would have traded me for the boat – I mean, you gave him the boat anyway?”

“Had I known his true passion, I might have done. Who knows what our story may have been.”

“I am deliriously happy now – especially after seeing Phillippe again – he reminded me of the coldness that shrouded our household.” Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, resting her head against his, she says, “He was always so proud of being French – although he never served in the military – his father’s early death left him head of the family. Doing well by the family name was important to him. His title was important to him. I see that much of that was folly.”

“You are saying he ran away?”

“So it would seem – which has me wonder about how much money the family still has – from what I understand the lands were taken over.”

“Then what Nadir reported is true.”

Christine stiffens at his words, taking a stand in front of him, hands on hips, head cocked to one side. “Nadir? Reporting what?”

Taking her hands in his, he kisses each one and says, “I asked him to run a quick check on where the family de Chagny were living and their financial situation.

Her attention returns to Raoul’s drawing. “So that is how you knew he has been in America for two years.”

“The stories Raoul was telling Meg about his finances had Nadir and Darius concerned – she has been his entire support for some time now…well, he was acting as her agent with the burlesque shows, but even so, there was no money coming in from his family.”

“She never said anything to me.”

“Did you think she would? I love you my darling, but you are so trusting of people,” he says, walking her to the sofa. “I, on the other hand trust no one. Meg is with the man you married, then left. Does he really love her, or is this just Meg settling for your leftovers and supporting him on top of it all? Darius has moved on.”

“Darius would never let her go without – whatever their legal relationship.” Frowning, she turns away from him tapping a finger on her lips. “What does all of this have to do with Phillippe being in the United States? Why would she want to spite me – because of you? All this business with Raoul is about us?

“Noooo, I did not say that,” Erik coos, following her pacing, until he reaches her, placing an arm around her shoulder. “Raoul went to see Darius about divorcing Meg so they could marry. Darius told him Meg could do what she wanted – they were married under Islamic fashion meaning Meg could leave him if she chose to do so. She does not trust Raoul with her money, so she stays married to Darius, even though he loves Yasmine. If anything Meg learned a lesson about Raoul from you.”

“So Nadir did some investigating and found Phillippe and the sisters were in Boston?”

“Exactly.”

“Doing what?”

“Good question – there is some money, but they all live together in a modest three-flat building in a modest neighborhood. Certainly not what they had in France." Leading her back to the sofa, he says, “Come sit down.”

They settle back on the couch, Christine holding Erik’s hands on her lap. “I feel badly for Raoul – even if there is no money, why would Phillippe not tell him they were so near to one another?”

“The same reason we complain about Raoul – he is frustratingly unaware of other people’s feelings and concerns,” Erik says. “My guess is the only reason Phillippe decided to show himself is our involvement.”

“Pride.” Christine agrees. “Raoul owing the money for the boat.”

“The conversation they are having must be a shock for Raoul,” Erik jokes. “Now I am really wishing I had built in some secret passages in the hotel.”

“You mean there are none?” Sitting up straight she faces him.

“Nary a one.”

“Even to the suite where Meg and Raoul live now – where I once stayed?”

“No.”

“Then, how, that first night…”

“When I heard you arrived at the hotel, I went to the room and waited on the balcony,” he says, relaxing against the cushions, crossing his legs.

“You just stood out there?” Arms akimbo. “How did you know Raoul would leave? Oh, of course, the phony note from Oscar Hammerstein…” She tosses her hands into the air. “You truly are a piece of work.”

Throwing his head back grinning, he asks, “How did you think I got onto the balcony?”

“Flew in – like an angel? I do not know. I was so stunned to see you I never questioned how you got there. You were always one for grand entrances, it never occurred to me to ask. Entering the room normally and waiting on the balcony seems so mundane,” she says, swatting him with a throw pillow.

Raising his arm to protect himself from another blow, he grabs the pillow, letting it fall to the floor and pulls her into his arms. “Mundane, eh? I suppose I shall have to dig into my bag of tricks to charm and fascinate you again.”

“You are ever fascinating to me, my husband, you do not need to build any secret passages. I much prefer your exploring me and my secret places.”

Nuzzling her neck, he says, “Do you think we have time for a short treasure hunt or do you think our son will come storming back annoyed we have kept him waiting?”

“Either that or he will begin his own search with Julia. After that one incident, I am leery of leaving them alone for too long.” Caressing his cheek, she sighs and kisses him lightly on the lips. “A moment of seduction does sound appealing, though.”

“Mmmm.” Returning the kiss with a bit more intensity – he, too, sighs before releasing his hold to get up. Extending his hand out to assist her, he says, “I suppose you are right. He is already too aware of our intimacies. Shall we find the youngsters and go home then?”

“I suppose that is best.”

A bell rings – once, twice, three times.

“And there he is.”

“Maybe we can sneak away after the banquet – the children will have their aunts and uncles and the nannies.” Erik turns off the lights in the workshop, then takes Christine’s arm, guiding her to the door.

“Or we can get everyone to bed early – it has been a very long day, after all.”

“For some reason our plans seem to be more like the children looking to do mischief than the parents.” Taking his hat from the coat rack and handing her reticule, he opens the door.

“It is a wonder we became parents at all,” she says, tucking her arm in his, snuggling close to him.

“In a sense, I suppose they are preserving their places in our lives – never giving us the opportunity to produce any more of them.”

Christine bursts out laughing. “Do you really believe that?”

“No – at least I hope not. Perhaps we need to spy on their conversations to be certain, though,” he says. “Henry, tonight is your night to create a ruckus, so Papa cannot get to bed on time. I can just hear Gustave giving him the order.”

“I think our Emilie already has that area covered – she does love her Papa.”

“Well, if not tonight, my dearest wife – I am stealing you away tomorrow when everything is abuzz in the dining room,” he says, closing the door behind them. “The holiday is called Thanksgiving and I am determined we both have something to be truly thankful for – a different sort of banquet, if you will.”

“I cannot wait.”

The bell rings again – just once with an increased intensity.

“Coming, son,” Erik calls down the elevator shaft. “Have no fear, your mother and I are behaving ourselves.” Flashing a grin to Christine, she responds with a giggle as they enter the lift.

“Do not provoke him,” she says. “He is at a difficult age.”

“As is his father – in that I believe we are quite similar.”

A look of understanding brightens her eyes. “I believe you are correct.”

“Am I not always correct?”

“A late adolescence?”

“A seemingly eternal adolescence where you are concerned.” Leaning down to kiss her, the elevator reaches its destination.

Gustave faces the door with his arms crossed. Observing the kiss, he shakes his head and turns to head out the door to the street. “You two.” 


	14. With Approval of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul, Meg and Phillippe.

“A guest, oh, Raoul, such short notice,” Meg says into the receiver. Scanning the room frantically, she sighs. All is in order, thankfully the hotel maid was there this morning to clear the detritus the couple left the night before. Clothing tossed haphazardly over the back of the cream brocade settee taken to their bedroom and hung in their individual armoires. The bed made, in the event the visitor needed to use the water closet. Dishes washed and put away. The only thing left to do was set the table.

“I suppose that will be fine – everything is tidy.” Neither of them was raised to do chores and, despite their mutual dislike for clutter, neither was inclined to alter their personal habits. Living in the Phantasma Hotel with all their household needs provided was quite a luxury they both appreciated.

When he suggested they make a life together away from the Phantasma family, she jumped at the chance to leave the place she found less and less tolerable. Their years in New York, living in a small hotel was uncomfortable and did not do much to endear them to one another at first. Meg often wondered why she ran off with the vicomte – the title simply that – a title with nothing to back it up socially or financially.

What Raoul brought to their situation was his ability to charm the managers of the different theaters to pay Meg a slightly higher wage than the other performers because of the aforementioned title. She was nobility of a sort. Once it was realized by the public became aware that the woman who was doing a striptease on the stage in front of them was a French noble, an extra dollar or two added to the admission fee was handled over gladly. The extra money paid for a maid every few days and kept the larder stocked sufficiently.

No matter how many wires Raoul sent to his brother, very little money was forthcoming. He thought it was likely because of the war – nevertheless, the family was wealthy still, or so he believed. The discovery of her pregnancy was a shock to both of them. Once he discovered Gustave was not his child, Raoul was convinced he was sterile. None of his siblings had children either. Phillippe never married and Meg assumed Sorelli took steps to prevent pregnancy, but the sisters being barren was odd.

For her, she had “lost” a number of babies with the help of a local midwife when her “veil” did not work properly. Being married to Darius was a blessing – she no longer had to perform in bed and found safety in his protection of her, but it was not a real marriage – he was her therapist – not her husband in so many ways.

Her mother’s relationship with Nadir was a constant reminder of the night on the pier – he never let her forget what happened in the tone of his voice or a cross look in the deep green eyes. As for Adele, Meg had mixed emotions – a combination of love and hate, often leaning toward the latter. Blame for what her life became after leaving France always landed in Adele’s lap when Meg was feeling depressed or out of sorts.

Ultimately, it was Erik and Christine’s life together that found her growing closer to Raoul. Out of a shared sense of rejection and inability to entirely deal with that couple’s happiness and what each of them felt they lost, they found a common bond.

What she discovered, little by little, being with Raoul was different from all her other relationships – be it with her mother, Erik, Darius or any of the people who passed through her life – was his need for her and because of that need, he was sweet and loving…and kind, asking only for her presence – whatever her mood. The depth of his loneliness matched hers and comfort was found simply in her being.

Their physical relationship grew out of compassion rather than passion – more comfort than lust and something new for Meg and she liked the feeling. And so, their ease in simply being with one another would see them as parents – a Chagny child. The line would die with Raoul and his siblings, or so he believed, until now.

“A guest? Who?” she asks. Neither of them has developed any friendships, even though they have been back for several months. Most of the company were gone for the winter and both of them carry the cloud of leaving over them.

“Chicken pie – which is perfect because it is really too late to change our order,” she says, rubbing her stomach.

“Lemon tarts – extra because I know how you like them.”

“All right, but I hope the surprise is not such I will faint,” she laughs as she hangs up from the call, going into the kitchen to collect the dinnerware to set up another place setting on the dining table.

“The door is open,” Meg calls from the small kitchen in the suite. Hearing the latch, she continues, “Just set the food up on the table, we can serve oursel…” Her instructions stop when she sees not the room service valet, but Raoul and Phillippe. “Oh. Dear. I was hoping to have dinner here when you arrived,” she says, straightening her dress. “I did not expect you so soon.”

“I called from the lobby.” Raoul closes the door behind them, hanging his cap and jacket in the armoire by the front door, inviting Phillippe with a wave of his hand to do the same before walking over to Meg, wrapping an arm around her waist, encouraging her farther into the room. “It is fine, Meg, he wants to meet you.”

“I am not certain I want to meet him. Had I known who your guest was…” she murmurs under her breath while smoothing a stray blonde curl from her forehead. “What is this all about?”

“Mlle. Giry, I apologize for the lack of notice – I was only made aware of your condition this afternoon,” Phillippe says, stopping to clear his throat. “I have no intention of imposing on you now. If you would prefer, I will make an appointment for a meeting at a more appropriate time for you.”

“That would have been two years ago. My husband…Darius…told me you have been in Boston for some time now,” Meg says. “In any event, the person you should be apologizing to is your brother.”

“We can talk about that after dinner, Meg, can we not?” Raoul pleads, taking her hands in his, pressing his lips to her fingertips. There were times when he hoped he could have a family. So many times when seeing the life Christine made with Erik, he felt envious. The man he believed to be a monster for so long turned out to be, from all appearances, a great husband, father and businessman. The idea that he was working for him was almost embarrassing.

Much as he appreciates Meg’s supporting him now, his silent prayer is they get along. These past months, anticipating their own child softened her in a way he never expected. The accident and fear surrounding her vision, vanished when they were assured the baby would survive. Nevertheless, their emotional life was still unsettled – neither really wanting to commit to a relationship, but each day saw her more committed to him.

The day itself has gone really well – the new camaraderie with Gustave, the discovery of a talent he was unaware of…most of all Phillippe’s presence. His brother was always important to him – he was his father for all intents and purposes – until today, however, he was not aware of how much he missed him. He did not want an argument to ruin everything.

“Would you care for a drink? We do not keep liquor, but a soda pop? Meg and I are partial to ginger ale,” he says with a shy smile.

Before Phillippe can reply, there is a knock on the door.

“Our dinner.” Raoul lets the valet in.

The brothers and ballerina root where they stand as the valet removes the lids from the different platters and lays out their meal. After what seems to be an eternity, the valet takes the platter with the desserts into the kitchen and leaves tucking a modest tip into his pocket, closing the door behind him.

Meg breaks the silence, taking her place at the round table, Raoul helping with her chair. “I hope you like chicken pie – since I have been with child, I crave it. Raoul has been most understanding.”

“I am not sure I have ever partaken of the dish, but it smells wonderful,” Phillippe sits across from her – Raoul sitting in between.

The meal takes all their attention, the dominant sound of silver against porcelain breaks the silence, conversation limited to passing condiments and requesting beverages – ginger ale all around. The main course finished, Raoul clears the table and serves each of them a lemon tart. Meg follows him into the kitchen, returning with a tea pot, cream and sugar.

Once again, the food is consumed with no verbal interaction.

Phillippe clears his throat. “If I may be so bold as to ask, is this some sort of American habit…a lack of conversation during meals?”

Turning to Meg, Raoul says, “Because of our position, each of us children were encouraged to introduce a suitable topic to discuss during meals. Personal issues were not recommended, but the political activities of the day often provided enough gossip to sustain a meal.” To Phillippe he says, “As the youngest, I had the least experience and I am afraid, I never caught up. Even now, I find it difficult to converse easily.”

Placing a hand on Raoul’s, Meg says, “Raoul and I often chat during dinner – mostly about the park or, when we were in the city, about my act. Since you are not likely interested in the first and the last is now a thing of the past, I do not know what we might discuss that would not affect the digestion.”

“You mean why I am here at Phantasma?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Please prepare your tea and we can discover what you are doing here now, rather than when you and your sisters arrived from France without advising Raoul of your arrival.”

‘Meg, I do not want to argue with him – it has been so long and I have missed my family.”

Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she throws the linen square on the table. “It would seem the feeling was not mutual, Raoul. Why are you making excuses for him? Things get too dangerous for you in your beloved homeland, Comte?”

“The war is destroying France and much of Europe – I believed it best for the family to move…to save our lives and what personal property we could. My sisters were not equipped to deal with the poverty running rampant – nor is Veronique.”

“Ah, Sorelli – you married her, did you?”

“Yes,” he says softly, fingering the gold band on his ring finger. The barest smile crossing his otherwise tight lips, a flicker of light in his eyes before the flat gray clouds any further emotion.

“So you ran from your title and your lands.” Warming to the discussion, Meg’s own eyes flash.

“Not the word I would use, but, yes, we first moved to Perros, but after examining our options, the best plan was to cross the channel to England and find transport to America. The ship we were able to book passage on took us to Boston, which is where we settled.”

“Even though you knew Raoul was in New York?”

“It was a family decision – none of us is particularly young and the stress of the previous year took its toll. Boston seemed as good a place to settle as any.”

“You chose not to see…”

Raoul shakes his head, holding his hand up, he smiles at her before pursuing the questioning Phillippe. “Why did you not at least let me know you were here?” The presence of his older brother never failed to stilt his ability to express himself. Their father did his best to avoid him – unable to bear looking at the cause of his beloved wife’s death. Phillippe, to his credit, spent as much time with him as he could – the same with his older sisters, but even as a young child, he felt their grief every time they looked at him. The guilt was almost unbearable, particularly when someone new met him and told him how much he looked like his mother. 

The visit now was both bitter and sweet. He wanted this to be a good meeting. The desire for family and belonging somewhere an ache he was not aware of until now, but he could not simply let those lost years be forgotten without him, not Meg, confronting his brother.

“Veronique and I actually did make an attempt to see you at one of Mlle…I am sorry, how would you wish to be addressed?”

“Meg is fine – you came to see my act?”

“Yes. Veronique also wanted to visit with you – she misses Paris and dancing and the idea of speaking with an old friend was enticing.”

“Why did you not follow through?”

“You had gone.”

“So, this was recent?”

“Yes.”

“My wires – how did you get them?”

“An associate in Paris still taking care of business – such as it is.”

“The estate?”

“No longer exists – we still have some funds, but Eleanor and Caroline’s husbands and I are using our combined skills helping other immigrants find housing, set up bank accounts, other legal issues.”

“Working for a living, are you?” Meg smirks.

“Yes – I actually find it refreshing. Despite what you might think of me, I always had Raoul’s best interests at heart, but, in my own way, was a prisoner to a life style I did not choose.”

Raoul’s feelings are mixed at Phillippe’s confession – such as it was. His staying away when so close still made no sense. “Why did you not get in touch?”

“You seemed fine…”

“You are my brother – how could I be fine when you rejected me this way. I was laughed out of Paris. The man who almost killed me is more welcoming than my own flesh. My, god, Phillippe.”

“I had nothing to give you – our finances…”

“Be damned.” Raoul pounds the table, getting to his feet. “Is that what I am to you – to all of you – some blood sucking pariah?”

“Raoul! Please sit down,” Meg says. “Phillippe is here now – we should at least listen to what he has to say. I, for one am interested in his answers.” Standing up, she presses him back into his chair, rubbing his shoulders.

“He…you sounded desperate in the wire about the thousand dollars, mentioning the boy and buying a boat – the possibility of a business,” Phillippe says, folding his hands in front of him. “I suppose it was the fact you had a plan for yourself. Frankly, it was only recently we could offer you any help.”

“Are you hand delivering the money?” Meg asks.

“Meg,” Raoul takes hold of one of her hands. “You were right – let us hear what he has to say. Sit, you need to stay off your feet – remember what the doctor said.”

“Actually, that is exactly what I came to do – to give you the money – to repay the loan from Gustave and help build your business. Also, considering Meg’s condition, this will help support you and your…our new family member – $5,000,” Phillippe says, drawing an envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket, holding it out for Raoul to take. “Most of our wealth is gone, but the family agreed it was time to become a family again.”

Raoul looks at Meg, who says. “Take it.”

“Are you sure?”

Phillippe nods. “I am sorry it took so long – pride is a foolish thing. I have to admit that book raised my hackles. But, as with most gossip, interest in the tale faded due to the war.” Taking a sip of his tea, he attempts a smile. “May I ask if you were working on your new project with the boy?”

Raoul stares at the older man for a moment. How difficult was it for this proud man to admit to what, in his mind, was likely a mortal sin – lack of wealth.

“In a manner of speaking,” he replies, his blue eyes brightening – accepting this was the most Phillippe was going to say on matters of money. Turning to Meg, he says, “Gustave and I were working on the plans for the Pirate adventure – we got into an argument about the shape of the building – he was drawing boxes and I tried to explain to him how a boat is shaped…”

Phillippe laughs, “You were quite vocal about how a boat is supposed to look – we heard you out in the hallway even before the door was opened. What was it you were telling him about _how the bow is formed to cut the waves?”_

“We?” Meg asks.

“I was in the lobby of the hotel when I ran into Christine – Erik came along and offered to take me to where Raoul was working in the Eyrie, I believe they called it.”

“I see,” she says.

“It was a stroke of luck, I had no idea where to find you.”

“It was so exciting, Meg.” Raoul stands up he spreads his arms describing how the boat should be shaped. “I began drawing my idea – I never drew anything before – I never knew I could, but Gustave said I was doing a good job, so I continued.” He sits back down, face shining, a big smile on his face. “It was good, Meg. I felt good doing the drawing. Working with Gustave…arguing with him…plotting the way we could turn a building into a boat felt so…good. I cannot think of a better word to describe my feelings. Good.”

Meg smiles at him, taking his hands in hers. “I can see that. I know how that feels and I see the joy in your eyes.”

“You did seem to fancy art when you were a child – it just was not something to be encouraged,” Phillippe says. “I am sorry. There is so much to be sorry for.”

“Gustave used his own money to buy the sailboat I will be using for my boat rides – I can pay him back now. The rest will be put aside – I am earning a salary for my work on the Pirate attraction.”

“A perfect day, I would say,” Meg says, her voice edged with a touch of sarcasm as she releases Raoul’s hand and sips her tea, “One cannot often say that here.”

Phillippe raises an eyebrow. “A fantasy land does not offer up perfect days? I am surprised.”

“We have had our share of imperfect times here, but today _is_ perfect, is it not? I have my brother and, soon, my sisters again, work I enjoy, money to repay a debt and the woman I love carrying my child,” Raoul says, beaming. “I do not believe I have ever been happier or felt so fulfilled.”

“I would not get too carried away, brother, life can be quite fickle.”

“Like lovers,” Meg smirks.

“Those days are past, Meg,” Raoul responds. “This is a new beginning for us and our child. You have been so strong I do not know where I would be without you.”

“Perhaps a toast is in order,” Phillippe says, “if there is any more of this ginger drink, I am certain that the gods who oversee toasts would not think us remiss it is not champagne – it certainly has the appearance of the bubbly.”

“Of course,” Meg says, rising from the table, “we live in Phantasma. Everything here is not quite what it appears to be. I am certain the gods will approve.”


	15. Let the Games Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boat arrives. Erik, Christine, Nadir and Gustave "discuss."

_Fall on your knees. Oh, hear the angel’s voices…_

“Papa! Papa!” Gustave shouts as he barrels into the Eyrie, sliding slightly on the polished wooden floor, steadying himself on the back of the seven-foot-long leather sofa.

Erik stops playing. Christine stops singing. What was their first rehearsal for the Christmas program, finally coming together now that the carols have been selected, halts at the shouts of their first-born son.

“Pianissimo. Pianissimo,” Erik says as they jokingly place their forefingers in their ears. The signal developed for anyone in the entire household to use when the decibel level becomes less than tolerable for him or her to bear. That Erik was often the person the movement was directed at, usually by his wife, mattered little. His complaints of being the father and it was he who made the rule gave him the power to ignore it bore no fruit.

_“You know very well your merely raising an eyebrow and speaking softly…so very softly…in one’s ear will silence them, Erik.”_

_“Really?” he said to Christine, puffing up his chest. “I rather like that idea, but I do so like to yell on occasion – there is something freeing by allowing my voice to swell and overwhelm particularly when one of the little buggers has disturbed me when I am working.”_

_“Save it for singing or cursing the gods out on the pier – yelling at children, servants or your wife will not serve you in the long run.”_

_“What if there is danger?”_

_“Then a loud voice is acceptable.”_

_“There is that then.”_

_“Playing tricks?”_

_“No, you have ruined many a meal by scaring one of us when carrying food from the kitchen.”_

_“I often frighten people by my mere presence.”_

_“You intimidate people, Erik. You do not scare them. In any event, we are speaking about loud voices in the house. Joshua is quite fond of screaming and fussing, as you may have noticed, and must learn to control himself. If his papa does not follow the rules, how will he learn?”_

As always, she managed to come up with the argument that worked one hundred percent of the time – if something was good for the children, he would do it.

“Slow down, son, the floor will not be kind if you fall down and I am not in the mood for setting fractured tibias or fibulas.” Erik shifts his position on the bench to face the red-faced, heavily breathing teenager.

Christine takes a seat on the couch, patting the cushion next to her for Gustave to sit down. “Sit here and calm yourself. Perhaps some tea?”

Gustave shakes his head and moves to the kitchen. “Root beer. This deserves root beer.”

“Erik, tea?”

“May as well, it would seem our rehearsal is to be put aside for the moment,” he says, getting up from the piano, accepting the cup from his wife, he grabs a croissant from the plate next to the tea pot on the coffee table. Taking a seat in his arm chair across from the sofa, the two of them wait for the return of Gustave with his bottle of soda pop.

“You will never believe it,” Gustave says, taking a long swig of the dark amber liquid, before plopping down on the couch.

“Try us,” Erik says. “You have commandeered our rehearsal. I do so hope whatever you have to say is worthy of the interruption.”

“Raoul paid me back the thousand dollars.” A wide grin breaks across his face. “I went to meet him in the loading area by the carpenter’s shop. The people who sold us the boat brought it on a trailer and left it there. Drove off before saying a word, like they were scared or something.”

“Frightened? Of what,” Christine asks, sitting forward on the couch.

“At first I thought it might be some of the freaks, but none of them were walking around.”

“Gustave!”

“I do not mean to be disrespectful, but you know how people can be,” he responds. ‘Besides I only thought it, I did not say it.”

“Handled very well my son,” Erik laughs. “In addition to your other many talents, you might wind up being a diplomat.”

“Then they kept said something about ghosts and the boat being haunted.” Gustave shrugs. “I joked that we have a hall inside the park where there were all sorts of ghosts, ghouls and demons.”

Erik rolls his eyes.

“This is diplomacy?” she replies, attempting to control the smirk forming on her lips. “Only if he learns to temper his words before they leave his mouth rather than after when he must provide an explanation.”

“I did not mean anything, Maman,” Gustave says. “I was trying to make them laugh, but just made it worse. They were nervous and wanted to go. Raoul tried to ask them some questions about where they got the boat. All they would tell him was they found it washed up in a cove where they go fishing – just a ways up the coast. Figured someone would buy it because it was so unusual.”

“They were correct about that,” Erik agrees.

“Then jumped back in their truck and drove off leaving their trailer behind and everything.”

“Hmmm, what sort of condition is it in?”

“A real mess.”

“Worth the money?” Erik asks.

“Weellll.” Gustave scrunches his face.

“No, I take it.”

“It will take some work – but Raoul says it can be made sea-worthy – the hull is made of teak – which I know is good because teak is so hard. It has a lot of weird carvings.”

“Carvings?” Christine asks. “That does seem unusual. Of what?”

“There is a dragon’s head on the prow and a lot of what look like the body with lots of scales and other stuff…”

“It sounds quite unique…and strange enough for a normal person to find spooky,” Erik says. “For most people a boat is for fishing or transportation – this one sounds like a creative piece.”

“I guess,” Gustave mutters, “but this boat just seems weird.”

“So then, it is worth the money for the artistry, albeit weird artistry?”

“The work is not all that fine, but maybe.”

“Needs to be cleaned up a bit and will be a real beauty?”

“The Beauty Underneath?” Gustave bounces in his seat causing Christine to laugh. “I guess so, but will take some work.”

“I shall have to go look at this stroke of purchasing genius.”

“Alfred is looking it over now – it is a big boat.”

“That it is,” says Nadir, entering without any bell ringing or door knocking. “Ugly, too.”

“Nadir, good morning,” Christine says. “I just made tea.”

“This _is_ a residence of sorts, daroga,” Erik says, “did you consider notifying me in any way of your arrival.”

“I did, but thought it easier to just come up the stairs, since the wooden object being called a vessel meant for sailing is sitting in the loading area, blocking traffic.”

“So they _did_ just leave the thing.”

“I told you,” Gustave harrumphs.

“I would have thought someone might have the common sense to move it.” Erik asks, jumping up to look out the window. “Damnation.” He curses loudly. “They did – just dropped the thing off on its cart. I would be hard pressed to call it a boat.”

Gustave puts his fingers in his ears.

“Oh, stop that,” Erik tells him. “This is worthy of a dispensation.”

“Some might say the vicomte has fallen in love, he was quite beaming when looking at the barge – he says he can make it into a first class launch,” Nadir chuckles.

“In love? I feel I should be offended by that comment, Nadir.” Christine joins Erik at the window and starts to laugh. “It really is a piece of junk, not the fiercest dragon I have ever seen. Still, the only time I have ever seen Raoul really engaged with anything, it was his boat. He may surprise us all.”

“Maybe he will have better luck with a boat than with a woman,” Erik says, waving his hands at all of them to move away from the window. “Sit, everyone.” Following his own direction, he returns to his armchair and crosses his legs. “One can hope.”

“If you were expecting him to put any labor into the Pirate attraction, I would re-evaluate what he will be willing to do,” Nadir says. “We need to discuss a few things.

“So Phillippe must have given him the thousand dollars for the payment,” Christine says. “Was that not what you paid for the boat, Gustave? Nothing extra for major repairs.”

Gustave flops onto the couch and nods, holding up an envelope. “He gave me this just now – that was what I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh, Phillippe gave him more than a grand – five to be exact,” Nadir says, helping himself to a cup of tea with eight cubes of sugar he lines the edge of the saucer with ready to dip in the tea and suck on.

“Your habit of eating sugar cubes is really quite obscene,” Erik says. “Can you just not put the sugar in the tea if you prefer the sweetness?”

“I could, but then you would not be annoyed and I would not enjoy my guilty pleasure quite so much. You might try it to sweeten your own nature.”

“Leave him be, Erik,” Christine says, taking a sip from her own cup. “After all this time, most of us have grown accustomed to Nadir’s partiality for eating sugar disguised as drinking a cup of tea.”

“Fine. Whatever. This room used to be a sanctuary, it has now become a meeting place for gossip and snacks.”

“You are seldom in your office these days, although I did try to ring you when the concierge called me about the road being blocked,” Nadir replies. “You are a creature of habit, my friend, and I believed you would like to know what was going just outside your window.”

“I tried to tell him, Uncle Nadir,” Gustave says, grabbing a croissant from the plate, adding some jam before taking a bite.

“Christine and I came here to rehearse for the Christmas show – the theater being taken up by the other performers,” he grumbles. “The boat seems to be the main topic of interest, so tell me what you know and then you can leave.”

“As I said – five thousand – according to Meg.”

“Dollars?” Christine chokes out. “Phillippe gave him that much? What a liar.”

“How so?” Erik asks.

“Implying he was in dire straits, but can come up with that much cash?”

“Meg was given the impression it was a hardship as well – the family having to scrape the money together for Raoul,” Nadir says. “At least that is what she told Adele. Felt bad about leaving him high and dry. Wanted him back in the family. Blah, blah, blah.”

“From what I remember of Phillippe, that amount would have been spare change, but not easily parted with. He may have escaped with his life, but I am willing to wager he took a fortune with him – not just cash, but the valuables in the estate were worth thousands upon thousands. If he was willing to shed five thousand dollars, you can be assured there is a significantly larger cache somewhere.”

“How deep did your investigation go in Boston?” Erik asks.

“Not deeply enough, judging from Christine’s remarks.”

“When did you start investigating Phillippe?” Christine’s brow furrows, the tone of her voice cool and pointed. “You never said anything to me – I might have been able to help…I did live in the same house with him for ten years.”

Erik’s eyes widen as he stumbles over his answer. “Only a few days before he arrived – when I learned about the boat and the wire to Raoul refusing him the money. I…we…”

“What…you what?”

“Um, I…Raoul’s affairs never interested me while he was in Manhattan, it suited me just fine. When he came back here, it became more of an issue. I…um.”

Christine cocks her head to one side, staring at him. “Go on.”

“I did not want you to…”

“Know?”

Erik’s eyes shift from side to side, as he loosens his collar. “Worry…or think me…us foolish,” he finishes, offering a small smile.

Nadir clears his throat. “It was actually as much my idea as his, dear lady, especially since I have the law enforcement connections,” He winks at Erik and chuckles. “You know how I feel about the dumb blondes*. That, and Adele and all worrying about Meg and her inheritance – any possibility of Raoul actually having a financial cushion was of interest to all of us.”

“Then I shall blame you for the lack of thought and consideration for my past association.” The words directed to Nadir become wry humor as she continues to focus on Erik in his discomfort.

Nadir shuffles in his seat. “Not entirely, of course, but your husband did not actually initiate the idea.”

“The pair of you should know better – playing detective…”

“We were only trying to find out if there was a possibility of Raoul becoming solvent – for all our sakes,” Erik says.

“Hmmm. Well, in the future, I suggest you include me in your spying adventures – it might save time.”

“Of course,” Erik and Nadir say in unison.

Seeing the repartee among the adults come to an end, Gustave finishes his snack and says, “I remember he sent that wire after he saw the advertisement about this boat. I was looking through the newspaper and saw the picture…it looked better then.”

“There was a photograph?” Christine asks. “Do you still have it?”

“No,” the boy answers. “When I showed it to him, he got all red and jumpy – took it from my hand – then went to send the wire.”

“I suppose he felt that Phillippe would be more receptive if there was something he wanted to invest in, rather than just wanting money,” Christine says. “Despite Raoul’s poor luck with almost all of his investments, the idea he was not idle might have prompted the offer of funds.”

“You mean more important than for room and board – survival needs?” Nadir snickers. “Phillippe sounds about as warm as a glacier.”

“Oh, he can be very charming – Erik can attest to that. He was only twenty or so when their father died and became the head of the family. He overcompensated for his youth by being sterner than may have been necessary on the one hand and too permissive on the other. The result is Raoul being who he is – perpetually needy.”

Standing once again, Erik paces the floor, tapping out rhythms on his thighs with his fingers. Reaching back into his memory, creating a theory, putting the pieces together as if composing a sonata. The vicomte could be clever enough, but easily led by a good tale. The incidents at the Garnier were proof of that – Erik being the primary beneficiary of Raoul’s fantasies about himself and the world. It would seem telling tall tales was a family trait. “The book likely angered Phillippe as much as it did me, but blood runs thick with them.”

“As I said, Adele was concerned for Meg – Raoul living off of her, but Meg seemed fine with it before and still does – so I just keep my own counsel – foolish woman – foolish man…made for each other,” Nadir says. “Then there was the boat and Phantasma and Gustave getting caught up in it.”

“The wires were what bothered me. When the concierge told me about all the telegrams going back and forth, it made no sense to me – France is at war – who has time or ability to be sending wires, if Phillippe was still there at all. I asked Nadir to look into what might be going on.”

Nadir picks up another piece of sugar to dip in his tea. “My investigation turned up the wires actually initiated in Boston – maybe a wire service was being paid to suggest they were coming from France. People will do most anything for money – falsifying a few telegrams.” He shrugs.

“I still do not understand why Phillippe chose this point of time to make his appearance,” Christine says. “He could have easily continued his charade about being in France.”

“He told Meg and Raoul he tried to find them in Manhattan, this was just after they left,” Nadir says.

“And they left because Meg was with child,” Erik adds.

“Phillippe did not know she was pregnant – I told him,” Christine says.

“Are you sure that was his first knowledge?” Nadir asks.

“I am willing to believe he found out from the theater where she worked last.”

“The baby will be the only child produced by any of the siblings,” Christine says, enthusiastically warming to the discussion. “Do you think he wants the baby?”

“Quite possibly,” Nadir says. “The only problem being Meg is married to Darius – so legally the child is not Raoul’s.”

“He seemed willing enough to cast Raoul aside,” Erik says. “Why would he be so interested in a baby?”

“Raoul embarrassed him with the book,” Nadir says. “From what you have said, Christine, he is a very proud man, however, family ties will often win out over tiffs – particularly since the book is ancient history.”

“Sorelli might also have some influence – wanting to reacquaint with old friends,” Christine says. “The Chagnys are not the most exciting people and Veronique is likely bored silly.”

“You would know, my dear,” Erik says. “I apologize for not remembering your association with her, too.”

“Forgiven.” Christine bends her head, a small smile on her face as she looks up at Erik from under her eyelids.

“They were no fun,” Gustave adds. “I was always being told to be quiet, or mind my manners, or do that in the other room.”

Christine gives him a sympathetic look. “They are rather grim. I am sorry, son.”

“Still if Phillippe is greedy with money, he is just as likely to be greedy with people he feels belong to him – so came looking for the stray brother and now, the brother’s child.”

“I would not be a bit surprised,” Christine says, standing up, gathering up the used dishes onto a silver platter. “I believe a meeting with Sorelli might be in order – I have been wanting to go shopping for some Christmas gifts in Manhattan. Perhaps Meg, Adele and I could invite her for an overnight visit to the city to talk about old times.”

“It does appear she may have been the impetus for seeking Raoul and Meg out before,” Erik says. “You would not wish our company?” Nodding his head toward Nadir.

“What about me?” Gustave pipes up.

“This would be girls only,” Christine says. “I think I shall telephone her right now, no time like the present.”

“I would not be a bit surprised if she was expecting to hear from you,” Erik comments.

“You seem to be warming to the game,” Nadir says.

“Game? What game?” Gustave asks. “I am confused.”

“Your father and Phillippe appear to have challenged one another to a duel of sorts,” Christine explains. “Phillippe is not the only one who might be _greedy_ about family.”

“I prefer the word protective, but, yes,” Erik says, “he does seem intent on meddling with our family – blood related or not. I am actually including Raoul. Fool, though he may be, he is our fool.”

Christine raises an eyebrow.

Gustave’s eyes widen as he give his father a crooked grin.

“Let the games begin,” says Nadir, affirming his comment with crunchy bite of sugar cube.

“So be it.”

*I took a little license with the timing of this expression which actually came into being in 1920s, although dumb, meaning stupid, has been around a very long time and was originally more often used to describe men than women.


	16. Five Golden Rings and a Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas vignette for each of the 6 couples in this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also published as a one-shot for a Christmas competition. Adding it to this story in order to fill in the time gap with plot elements for each couple that occur between Thanksgiving and New Years. They are related to and necessary for the flow of the story line overall. This includes the addition of a new pair, alluded to in Chapter 15 - Phillippe and Sorelli - whose presence will be felt in later chapters.

**Raoul and Meg**

Raoul places the small, glitter-laden star atop perhaps the smallest evergreen Meg has ever seen. A mere three feet high, the spruce fills their hotel room with its fresh scent. Once the electrician left after installing a string of red, green and yellow bulbs, smiling brightly at the five dollar tip added to his fee for such a minimal amount of work, the young vicomte set about hanging some shiny bulbs he found backstage at the theater.

His blue eyes shine as he hangs each ornament, choosing exactly the right place for a red ball next to a green light, certain each color is represented evenly throughout. Satisfied with the decorations, he pulls out a cardboard box from a small wooden case he keeps in the armoire.

Meg understands this valise to be his personal treasure trove, containing cuff links, tie tacks, different fobs for his pocket watch and other valuables – including a small amount of cash. When she asked why he chose keeping everything contained and in the armoire, rather than utilizing one of the spacious dressers provided by the hotel for such things, he responded:

_“If ever I need to leave somewhere in an emergency – such as a fire – I should have those things most dear and of need to me in one place and close at hand.”_

_“Have you ever been in a situation that would create this fear in you?” she asked._

_“No,” he replied, “not really…not in that sense.”_

_“Then why?”_

_“When I was a child there was little I could call mine – everything was a part of the estate.”_

_“Even your toys?”_

_“I do not know if my toys and clothing were considered valuables,” he laughed. “Nevertheless, if I found a treasure…a glass marble or a shell discovered at the beach, I wanted those things to be mine alone, so I used a wooden box at first. Later on, when I had some money to spend for myself, I bought this case.”_

“What is so precious about your little box?” she asks.

“The piece de resistance.” Smiling broadly, he pulls out a few threads of tinsel already reflecting the lights of the tree, even as he holds them in his hands. “Would you like to help me hang these? I fear I took over the tree without even consulting you.”

“I enjoyed watching you,” she replies, folding the shining strands he allocates to her over her hand.

Taking a few at a time, each of them start at the bottom of the tree, making certain, as with the ornaments, the glitter is evenly distributed.

“Perfect,” he says, wrapping an arm around her, kissing her on the cheek. “I believe this is the most beautiful Christmas tree I have ever seen.”

“It is quite lovely,” Meg says, resting her head on his shoulder. “How long have you carried the tinsel around with you?”

“Years, I suppose – I really cannot recall,” he says. “One of our businesses was actually manufacturing tinsel as part of our inventory of metal goods. This box was from an earlier time, though – one of those things I always wanted to have with me.”

“But you are using it now?”

“I feel at home…with you and the baby-to-be…even in this hotel room,” he says, taking her hand, leading her to the chaise. As she sits, he goes on bended knee. Removing a small box from his pocket – an item from his case she failed to see.

“What is this?” she asks, cocking her head to one side, color rising on her cheeks.

Opening the box reveals a band of gold set with a square ruby surrounded with small diamonds. “I realize you are still married to Darius, but I am hoping you will choose to end that marriage and marry me.”

“Raoul…”

“I realize I have been untrustworthy in many ways and you have reason for concern,” he says, changing his position to sitting on the floor at her feet. “I am trying to be a responsible man…a good man…and want to be a good husband and father to our child. If you do not wish to consent now, I understand. Please, however, wear this ring until you find me worthy.”

Tears fill her own cerulean eyes as she allows him to put the ring on the third finger of her left hand. “I do consent. Yes, I will marry you. I cannot imagine life without you – all we have been through together and we can still laugh and dress a Christmas tree.”

“Thank you. I will do my best to be worthy of you.”

“Just your saying I am worthy of love and admiration means so much,” she says. “I believe a kiss would be appropriate.”

“Yes, of course.” Rising from the floor, he sits next to her on the chaise. Taking her face in his hands, he presses his lips to hers. “I love you, Meg.”

“And I you. And I you.”

**Nadir and Adele**

“Am I doing this right?” Nadir asks himself, as he drapes a garland of evergreen boughs on the hooks he installed over the French doors leading to the garden. Stepping down from the ladder, he examines the decoration. Satisfied the doors can still open and the garland is hanging evenly, he grabs a pair of holly wreaths, yelping as a sharp leaf pierces his finger. “Allah, be praised and forgive me for what I am thinking and doing right now,” he mutters as he climbs back up the ladder to center a wreath on each of the doors.

“Nicely done, husband,” Adele says, carrying a tray with her special Christmas porcelain teapot, matching cups and saucers as well as a sugar bowl filled to the brim with the cubes he could not resist dipping in his tea. Hoping the ghotab, a walnut and almond pastry he loved – and she spent hours learning to bake when they were courting, would limit the number of sugar cubes he consumed.

Her years as a dancer – and often a poor dancer, at that – made her very conscious, not only of her body weight, but what she observed in other dancers’ behavior when they consumed an excess of sweets. In Nadir’s case, he was becoming more and more portly as the years progressed and, if he exceeded eight cubes of sugar in his morning tea, he became moderately irritable.

Thankfully, he was a very active man and one of a very calm temperament, so that even when slightly on edge was still a person of amazing discernment. Nevertheless, she fretted, which was her nature. The challenge of being a perfectionist – nothing was ever entirely right in her estimation. Thus, she left the decorating of the house to him. Otherwise it would never have been finished.

“This Christmas business finds me confused,” he says, as he closes the ladder, standing it against the wall, and take a seat at the table. Picking up one of the pastries, he takes a big bite, dusting the front of his shirt with powdered sugar. “Excellent as always, my beautiful bride. You could challenge any Persian baker with these – perfect balance of walnuts and almonds.”

The ballerina nods her head, several small red bows dress her trademark braids now flecked with some white hairs. The red is also found in the silk blouse replacing the black, her previous choice for all her garments. Since her marriage to Nadir, the vibrant ruby tones, as well as deep teals have found their way into her wardrobe.

“What is confusing?”

“This is supposed to be a holiday – holy day – yet, most of what I observe is a focus on decorating with trees and other woodland plants more often connected with pagan rites.”

Adele was aware what he was saying was true. “Erik said the same thing when I asked him to join me at Midnight Mass years ago when we were still at the Garnier.”

_“You do realize that all of this business with Christmas trees dates back to the Druid celebration of the Winter Solstice? It is said that St. Boniface, in the eighth century, was trying to convert them to Christianity and suggested a fir tree, with its triangular shape, representing the trinity was more appropriate than the oaks they worshipped.”_

_“Well, all I know is that Adam and Eve were told not to eat the fruit of a tree and Jesus died on a cross made from a tree. Trees are a part of my religious practice – and that of most Christians – and I see nothing out of sorts in beautifying my home with one during the season celebrating Jesus’ birth.”_

“I hope you understand my wish not to attend the church service with you,” Nadir says, taking her hand, rubbing his thumb against the wide gold band she wears on her left hand. “I love you, my wife, but there are some things, I simply cannot consent to.”

“My belief is you are a gift to me from God,” she replies. “Many lonely years were forgotten when you came and filled my life.”

“As with me, I give thanks to Allah every day for your company and love.”

“So let us just think of this holiday – holy day – as one to celebrate one of the greatest gifts either of us has ever received – however it came to be.”

“So be it,” he says, kissing the ring, before taking another bite of his cookie. “How do the decorations look?”

Taking a close look at the doors for the first time since entering the room, she says, “The garland on the right is just a tad lower than the other – wait, perhaps it is the wreath – I am not sure.” Getting up from her seat, she walks to the windows and makes a minor adjustment. “There. Perfect. Well, done,” she laughs. “You are getting quite good at this Christmas business.”

“Thank goodness.”

“One more piece of greenery,” she says, hold a sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Ah, yes, I remember this one well.”

**Darius and Yasmine**

The kitchen still holds the heat from the now empty oven, the windows of the stately Victorian are frosted thanks to the cold night air. A light snow begins to fall inviting Darius and Yasmine to watch the flakes settle on the branches of the bare trees outside, grateful for the warmth inside.

“Thank you for helping Adele with the ghota – her pastries, although good, are so much better since you have been teaching her. I know Nadir appreciates the effort,” Darius says, standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his head against the top of hers. “Is this a new hijab? I do not recall ever seeing you wear one so bright with color.”

“A Christmas gift from Adele.” Fingering the soft challis, a paisley print of pale corals and greens.

“I like it – the colors suit you, bringing out the green in your eyes and blush of your cheeks.”

“Adele is most generous. It is a pleasure to help her, I am so happy to be welcome in their home,” Yasmine replies, reaching up a hand to smooth the fine cloth.

“You forget, this is my home as well,” he says. “As my wife, it is yours, too.”

“Meg is your wife,” she says, moving away from him to the sink, running water to wash the dishes dirtied from the baking.

“We are married in accordance with our faith,” he says, following her to the sink, taking her by the shoulders, turning her around to look at him.

“I know, my love, I simply find the situation uncomfortable – Adele is Meg’s mother and I often wonder what she thinks about our situation.”

“It is none of her business,” he replies, releasing her to sit in one of the wooden chairs at a small round table already set for morning coffee.

“Darius, that is disrespectful and you know it,” Yasmine smiles at him. “Stop frowning. I know this is not what you want now, but it is a situation you created.”

Running a hand through his hair, he says, “I know. It was foolish of me to marry her – we never lived as a married couple.”

“Then why?”

“She was so troubled – after the attempt on Gustave’s life and the shooting on the pier – Adele almost died. Meg was so fragile – ill. I believed I could help her…and I did. We love…loved each other, but…” He shrugs, “…she needed a caretaker – a friend – not a husband.”

“And now – she is with Raoul. They are going to have a child, and yet she is still your wife.”

“He asked me to divorce her,” he tells her. “I told him that was up to Meg. None of us is sure of his loyalty to her – if he is simply using her for financial gain.”

“Is that not her problem?”

“Part of the vows I made were to protect her. So long as she wants that protection…”

“What of us?”

“We live our lives as we have. You are my only wife as far as I am concerned. I am bonded to you as much as I am to Meg as far as your financial welfare and you are the only woman I wish to be with.”

“I want to be your lawful wife under the law of the state – in the eyes of the world we live in every day.”

“You mean Adele.”

“I mean Adele, Meg, Nadir, Erik, Christine, Gustave…all of them.” Tears form in her pale eyes, her cheeks flush pink, the same color as her hijab. “I work at the infirmary at Phantasma and I do not like how people look at me. I hear the whispers – your name. They do not understand and I am not understanding myself anymore.” She lifts up the chain hanging around her neck that holds a gold band. “I want to wear this as a real sign of our marriage.”

“You can do that now.”

“No – not while you still have the bond with Meg.”

His sigh is deep – his own dark brown eyes search hers. “You are right. I am being a stubborn fool – thinking I am responsible for a woman who has chosen a life with no place for me anymore.”

“You will ask for a divorce?”

“Yes, as soon as I can speak with her,” he says, walking over to her again. Taking the chain in his hands, he undoes the clasp and removes the ring. “May I place this on your finger? As my one and only wife?”

Yasmine nods as she holds out her hand. “Thank you.”

“I thank you for loving this obstinate fool of a man.”

**Phillippe and Sorelli**

The sound of sleigh bells on the street outside the window brings a smile to Sorelli’s face. A young boy holds a ribbon with the round balls attached runs in front of a couple she assumes to be his parents – their arms heavy with packages. The ground is covered with snow and he slips almost falling on an ice patch. “Oooo,” she breathes, pleased he rights himself with ease.

“What was the sound of concern about, my love?” Phillippe asks, entering their living room. Lit with one electric lamp and a dozen or so red and green candles on plates decorated with holly leaves the small room is still dark thanks to the heavy dark wood furnishings. A fire burns in the fireplace, the mantle decorated simply with an evergreen garland – a candle at either end.

“A boy almost fell, but righted himself – he might be a dancer, so refined were his movements.”

Resting against the sill, he presses hand against her forehead. “How is your headache? Elizabeth was concerned – she sent you a piece of the pumpkin pie she baked for dessert.”

“That was kind of her. I took some aspirin,” she says, leaning into him. “I am afraid I am never good company when we gather.”

“We are not the most entertaining group, I agree,” he laughs. “Yet there is comfort in family.” Looking around, he asks, “Where is your chair?”

Stepping to one side, exposing the wall next to her, she indicates her canes – ebony black with simple silver heads, designed to mold to her hands. “I try to walk as much as I can. When I do not, my legs feel useless and heavy and my hips stiffen. I fear if I only use the wheelchair, I shall never walk again under any circumstances.”

“Shall I carry you back to the chaise, you must be tired – just standing here.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she says, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “It was actually quite pleasant watching people going back and forth – some holding themselves close against the cold. Others, like the boy, enjoying the snow.”

“Are your feet causing any pain?”

“Dear husband, my feet have caused me pain since I was a small girl learning to dance.” The tone rueful and amused at the same time. “It was worth it.”

“You miss dancing.” It is a statement, he sees the longing in her eyes whenever they go to the ballet. Scooping her into his arms, he carries her to the burgundy chaise, the wood scrollwork on the arms and legs gilded. In contrast, the oak and cane wheelchair sitting next to the sofa is unadorned and utilitarian.

“One of our neighbors was carrying a very large doll dressed in a soldier’s uniform, reminding me one of my favorite roles was the Sugar Plum fairy. The Nutcracker is what I think of when Christmastime comes around. I cannot wait until we see it.”

“You were indeed a diva,” he remarks, setting her down, covering her legs with an afghan in shades of red and pink, before returning to the window and the small table where he left her pie. “Do you want this or should I put it in the kitchen for later?”

“Later I think,” she says. “Leave it there. Come sit beside me. I want to hear what your sisters had to say about Raoul and the baby.”

“I do believe your headache was not entirely due to being tired,” he chuckles.

“It was actually anticipation of a headache prompting me to leave.” Her own chuckle matches his. “I daresay, the conversation may have rivaled what I suspect you heard when announcing we were to be wed.”

“I could not leave Paris without you and there was no reason to play the nobility game any longer,” he says, running the back of his hand over her dimpled chin and chiseled jaw to her dark hair, pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck. “I am only sorry I made you wait until we arrived here – the French government has so many rules, it is a wonder anyone marries there at all. In truth, Raoul was actually more astute about marrying Christine – let the public and family be damned.”

“One cannot truly blame you – his marriage was less than a success,” she smiles, taking his other hand in hers. “Christine is happy now? Did you get the sense of that?”

“Christine and the _monster_ are delighted with one another – Gustave is becoming a fine young man.”

Pleased with his response, she says, “She telephoned me.”

“When? You did not tell me.”

“Days ago – I have been wondering what to say to both of you. I was unsure of bringing up the past – your feelings…your sisters’ feelings about what happened between her and Raoul. Her feelings about what happened between her and Raoul – truth be told.”

“As I said, she asked about you. I advised you were with us – that we were married – not much more than that…the meeting was about Raoul, so the subject was dropped. What did she want?”

“All we former Garnier dancers and dance mistress to meet in Manhattan for luncheon, shopping and an overnight stay.” Shrugging, tears form in her gray eyes, despite her attempt at a small laugh.

Meg was her protégé – a beautiful dancer, delicate and fragile looking, a direct opposite to her own fierce attack of the dance. Adele Giry was more like her as a dancer in her day – their personalities were much alike. Meeting with all of them again excited her as nothing had in months, years.

“You would like Phantasma, I think – Erik – the infamous phantom created quite a magical place. Perhaps we could take the train and stay at the hotel,” Phillippe says. “I should like to speak with Raoul again. It would do him good to see us together, I think.”

“Oh, Phillippe, I thought _you_ learned from _him_ about following your heart,” she says, holding up her left hand, pointing at her simple gold wedding ring.

“We are different.”

**Gustave and Julia**

Julia hums along as Gustave sings the lyrics to the carol drifting into the room from the hallway. Volunteering to plate the assorted cookies and cakes Chef from the hotel prepared for the Christmas party Erik and Christine arranged for the employees at their home, the two find sanctuary in the kitchen of the Bay Ridge house. The site of their first experiences in courtship and where Gustave stole his first kiss from the pretty housekeeper with hair the color of maize three years earlier.

No longer working at the house, but with Adele at Phantasma, the opportunities for the two teen-agers to see one another, much less share intimate moments were few – the absence increasing their longing rather than the opposite as his parents wished.

“Papa longed for Maman for years – ten of them here in America,” Gustave told her when he realized her new employment had as much to do with his infatuation as her skills as a bookkeeper.

_“From the look on your face, young man, your relationship with Julia has proceeded to a point where I cannot trust you to be alone with her.”_

_“We care about each other.”_

_“The type of caring you are experimenting with leads to the birth of children – you know that fact very well considering the books you have read on the topic.”_

_“Only once – it was only once.”_

_“So my suspicions are correct. Well, young man, once is quite enough. The girl excels at math – a position at Phantasma will be created for her. She should not lose her livelihood because of your inability to control yourself.”_

“To be loved like that must be wonderful – your mother is always so happy when she is with him.”

“I believe I take after him in that regard as much as I do with music and architecture,” he asserts.

“You have so many of your parent’s talents, Gustave.” Julia says softly, taking the time to be certain each platter has equal amounts of each type of cookie – chocolate chip, oatmeal with raisins and butter cookies. Macarons have their own platter – Christine’s favorite, meringues – Adele’s favorite – and a larger tray hold decorated gingerbread men. “I wonder sometimes why you even like me at all.”

He stops his own piling of candied treats haphazardly in large bowls – chocolate drops, peppermint candy canes and saltwater taffy. “But you are perfect, Julia. Do you not know that?”

Her cheeks flush, taking on the color of her red velvet dress. “Hardly that. I was a housekeeper who was good at addition.”

“A perfectly respectable set of skills,” he tells her, risking placing an arm around her waist. “You are kind and honest. The brats love you and, well, Papa and Adele cannot speak more highly of you.”

Pulling away, she huffs. “There is nothing special about any of those things.”

“Really?” He stands, folding his arms and tapping a foot. “Do you have any idea how truly rude and awful people can be – I see them at Phantasma all the time. Henry and Margaret cannot walk down the street without someone commenting on them being midgets – making certain they hear no less.”

“That is cruel. They are children!”

“Exactly, but people are mean,” he tells her, this time wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to his chest, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. “You are beloved at the park. Not a day goes by when I do not hear someone talk about how sweet and lovely Julia is.”

“Really.” Her blue eyes search his hazel ones.

“Really.” Taking a deep breath, he leads her to the banquette beneath the window looking out at the garden where they both sit down. “We are too young now, I know, but maybe we could be betrothed to be betrothed.”

“Gustave, what are you saying?”

“I hope someday to make you my wife,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, drawing out a small box wrapped in holiday paper with a gold bow and hands it to her.

“What is it?” Not waiting for his reply, she tears off the wrappings and opens the box. “Oh, Gustave, it is beautiful.

Taking the chain holding heart studded with small diamonds from her, he says, “Lift your hair, so I can put this on you.”

Bending her head, she does as he requests, biting her lip as he fumbles with the clasp.

“It is truly beautiful – I have never owned anything so nice – it must have cost a fortune.”

“Worth every cent,” he says, lifting her chin. “Let me see.”

“How does it look?” Giggling she models the jewelry for him. “I feel like a princess.”

“You are a princess and, if you will have me, I should like permission to be your beau until we are old enough so I can put a diamond ring on your finger.”

Nodding eagerly, she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth.

“Julia!”

“I love you, Gustave. I am so happy you love me.”

“I do, Julia, with all my heart. Never doubt it. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

**Erik and Christine**

The snow storm over, drifts form on the smallest shrubs to the limbs of the trees bare of their summer leaves. The now clear black sky a perfect canvas for what looks to be a million stars overhead. The full moon reflects on the sparkling white crystals – providing enough light to walk from the conservatory to the gazebo without any other lamps or lanterns.

The air crisp and clean pinches Christine’s nose as she follows Erik through the French doors. She pulls up a pale blue scarf to cover her nose and mouth, and adjusts the matching cloche to protect her ears. Each of them is bundled in a woolen coat – Erik’s black, as is usual, only a hint of beading on the collar, forfeiting his fedora for a beret hat with earflaps. The icy winters near the ocean finds him sacrificing style for comfort. In the same vein, eschewing a long skirt, Christine dons a pair of navy blue woolen knickerbockers and long stockings with her boots.

“Are those Gustave’s?” Erik eyes the unfamiliar wardrobe.

“No, they are mine – I bought several pair once I viewed them in the windows of a shop when the Girys and I went to Manhattan to shop. They are the newest thing for woman – warm and comfortable.”

“I must admit I rather like them,” he says with the smallest of snickers coloring his tone. “Reminds of your costume in _Il Muto_ before…” A shadow appears to flash past his eyes, darkening the bright amber to the near black of obsidian – the volcanic energy of the stone takes hold of him momentarily.

“The chandelier was not your fault,” she takes his arm – you said Buquet meddled with the mechanism.”

“There is no way it should have fallen – I designed the mechanics – that nosy bastard must have spent hours sabotaging the masterpiece Charles designed.” Stepping away from her he presses a hand to his forehead. “Who knows when it might have fallen? At that moment in time, however, my rage might have brought it down by sheer will.”

“You could not have known.” Reaching out, she touches his back lightly, but he keeps moving away from her.

“I should have – you might have been killed.” The memory of the deadly event, a woman in the audience died, several others injured, erase the festive mood of just moments ago. Tension grips his body and his pace increases, long legs moving along the path, seemingly of their own volition, leaving Christine running behind.

“But I was not and that was a lifetime ago. We are here now and everything you build is quality controlled until you drive Alfred mad with inspections.” Catching up to him, she grabs his arm, pulling him around to look at her. “You have done your penance. You would not have this life now if the gods still found you guilty. You paid for so many sins you did not commit – I have to believe somewhere, somehow the debt has been paid. The whole point of this holiday we are about to celebrate addresses that very issue – forgiveness.”

Stopping…her words reach him. With a nod, he takes her hand, they continue their walk over the red brick path, now dusted in white, to the gazebo. “Your presence in my life – loving me, bearing my children – tolerating my erratic temperament. I feel I must be doing something right – at least I hope so. I am weary of crises.”

A guttural laugh erupts from Christine. “You thrive on crises.”

“At least they have to do with the affairs of the park – not create chaos at an opera house – haunting it, as you were, to fill a lonely existence.” He leads her up the steps into the gazebo, so far still untouched by the snow – the bench and Adirondack chairs clean and dry.

Erik lifts the seat of the bench and removes two large plaid blankets. Laying one down, he indicates Christine sit. Joining her, he drapes the second blanket over their legs. “This is perfect. I am so happy we chose this house. Although close to the city, the sound of the bay lapping against the bulwarks and the trees on the property suggest we are in the country.”

“This is the best time, after the storm,” she says. “Everything is so clean and bright – whatever darkness or fear or upset wiped clean by the beauty of the glistening snow.”

After sitting quietly for a moment, he dips into the pocket of his jacket and brings out a small square box. “Take off your glove, please.”

Tilting her head to the side, an eyebrow raised, the barest of smiles on her lips. “A ring? I already have the black diamond – is this another from your past?’

“In a manner of speaking,” he coaxes, “just take off the glove, please. The one on your right hand. As you say, you have your marriage ring.”

After removing her woolen mitten, she holds her small hand out to him.

He opens the black velvet box to reveal a gold band set with six small stones – turquoise for Gustave, topaz for Angelique, Opal for Emilie, pearl for Joshua and two emeralds – one on either end for Henry and Margaret.

Counting the stones and noting the differences, she exclaims, “A Mother’s ring – oh, Erik, you even included one for Angelique – I love the stone – it matches your eyes.”

Taking the ring from the box, he places it on her right hand ring finger. “Happy Christmas, my love. You have blessed me with your love and with the children represented here.” Taking her hand, he kisses her palm.

“I love you, my husband – I will treasure this ring as much as my marriage ring.”

“Oh, look,” he says, pointing up at the sky, “a shooting star. Make a wish.”

“What to wish for – I already have everything I could possibly want,” she says, looking first at the sky, then at his face, full of wonder as a child. “A kiss – I should like a kiss.”

“You do not need to wish on a shooting star to get a kiss, but a kiss you shall have – as many as you want, whenever you want.”

“Those are the best Christmas gifts of all.”


	17. Tales of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine recalls one of the stories her father told her as a child that might explain why Raoul's boat appears to be haunted.

With the exception of location, now set in the corner of the lot adjacent to the theater carpenter’s workshop, instead of the street in front of the hotel – a few tarps thrown haphazardly over the gunwales and a layer of snow covering most of the surfaces – the dragon’s head boat looks much the same as it did the day the two fisherman delivered it to Phantasma almost a month earlier.

Christmas over, the New Year barely begun, the decision was unanimously agreed upon by all concerned to save any ideas for rehabilitating the vessel Erik determined to be of Norse heritage, in concept if not in actual ancestry, until the holidays were far behind. Icy winds coming from the Atlantic, often bringing heavy wet snow with them, kept whatever workmen still in New York working on the rides and attractions that kept them inside. Although still cold, at least dry and protected from the more aggressive weather.

Dreading the confrontation with Raoul’s dream – a necessity if he was to win the battle of wills with Phillippe he was certain was forthcoming over the baby Meg was carrying – Erik knew he must make a short, if perfunctory examination of the “new activity” the hotel guests would be offered as part of their stay – for a small fee, of course.

The holiday would make the inspection more palatable. He and Christine decided a brisk walk along the pier would be an excellent start to the New Year, leaving any remnants of the New Year’s Eve party the night before to Fleck, Helen, Gustave and Julia to clean up. Embracing the frozen air and the majesty of the dark waves of the Atlantic, relatively calm after the most recent storm, to visit a purported haunted boat, before a luxurious breakfast, was exactly how New Year’s Day should be celebrated.

_“No time like the present,” he said, when he pulled on his heaviest woolen pants, a plaid flannel work shirt and his now favorite gray wool cap with flannel-lined earflaps._

_“I would never recognize you had you worn that garb in Paris.”_

_“Perhaps if I had worn such garb in Paris, I would not have been so damnably cold all the time.”_

_“Ah, but you were so attractive in your tails, glittering cloak and feathered cavalier hat – my particular favorite.”_

_“You noticed my apparel?”_

_“Was that not the point?”_

_“Of course, but I was not aware of you noticing it. Speaking of garments – another pair of knickerbockers?”_

_“As you say, I got tired of being cold, but mostly having to take what seemed like hours to get dressed and, once dressed, uncomfortable, even in the newer fashions.”_

_“No one would ever suspect you to be Gustave’s mother – a brother, perhaps.”_

_“Are you going to criticize my costume further – or can I finish dressing so we may enjoy our breakfast by the sea?_

_“Spunky are you?” He laughs. “I am sorry, I quite like the way you look in the pants. Actually I quite like the way you look with or without clothing.”_

_“Never a man to mince words,” she returns the laughter. “Those last few might earn you the opportunity to be present during my disrobing.”_

_“Hmmm.” An eyebrow quirks as he steps toward her._

_“Not now!”_

Casually walking around the vessel, he recalls the information garnered from a few of the books he retrieved from the Eyrie library. “The Viking Age was about 1,000 years ago. The wood here is wrong – Vikings were partial to oak, with a very specific way of creating the planking,” he mutters to Christine, who is examining some of the carvings on the hull.

“I am no expert in carvings, but these seem haphazard – not much artistry. I think the boat would be handsomer if the wood had been left alone,” she says. “The teak, if that is what this is, is beautiful.”

“Teak is quite waxy – waterproof – but can be difficult to carve.” Pulling a small pocket knife from his pocket, a small scratch it added to an already etched section. Leaning in to smell the wood, a small sniff finds him pressing a gloved hand against his nose. “Phew. Still smells like dung. I wonder how the person or person could stand all the chiseling.”

Christine laughs. “If you knew it was going to have a bad odor, why did you smell it.”

“I wanted to be certain,” Erik says. “Science, my dear.”

“Silly. If you ask me, my dear,” she intones mimicking him.

“It is definitely a replica. This boat is considerably smaller than anything possible of crossing the ocean – nevertheless a decent copy.” Erik says. “I wonder if the fishermen who found it knew about a Viking tradition of burying the captain of the ship with his favorite animals, thralls and members of his household, all slaughtered, of course, to find themselves together again in the afterlife. Perhaps those stories are what frightened them.”

“Pappa was always somewhat in awe of the Vikings – not that he was particularly impressed by some of their brutality – such as you just spoke of.” Christine covers her mouth, swallowing hard.

“It would seem this boat is determined to make both of us sick for one reason or another,” Erik says, placing an arm around her, leading her away from the object of her disgust. “I apologize – there are times when I forget some of the history of which I speak is taken more personally than intended. When one is reading, there is the ability to distance oneself from the obvious cruelty of such acts.”

Laughing lightly, she responds, “I cannot image reading about such acts without feeling mildly nauseated, but do understand your point – you are quite a storyteller. I am certain Gustave would find tales of such gore fascinating and wish for more.”

“What did your father find impressive?”

“Their fearlessness and actually building amazing boats to explore the world – creating their own culture,” she replies. “Also the mythical elements – the dragon for example. Pappa loved his tales of the North. One story was about a dwarf name Fáfnir. He was incredibly strong and fearless. Stronger and more aggressive than his two brothers, he acted as guard to his father's house of precious gold and gems. In guarding the house, he became very greedy and turned into a dragon in order to guard his treasure. Fáfnir breathed poison into the land around him so no one would go near him and his treasure, wreaking terror in the hearts of the populace.”

“If that is the myth the men heard, they might well have been frightened by some of the people they saw here – as Gustave joked – although now, likely a part of the truth – the poisonous odor certainly makes sense.”

“Perhaps, Pappa would often introduce a story if the audience became restless with only music, which was seldom, but the children would sometime become restive.”

“I would have to say he was quite the adventurer himself – giving up the safety of his farm to bring his music to the world,” Erik says, taking her hand, slipping it through the crook of his arm again. “I never asked and you never said, but, how did you feel about his choice?”

“The thought never occurred to me about having any say in the matter,” she says with a sniff, as they walk toward the hotel. “To be honest, thirty odd years later, I never asked that question of myself. He led, I followed. After my mother died – he simply wanted to leave all the memories behind, such as he could.”

“You were never concerned? Angry?”

“No…at least not then,” she says. “Later, when I was a little older, when we had to sleep outside more often than not…and there was no money for food, I would wonder why. Life on the farm was safe – our house was warm.”

“You never said anything to him?”

“The look in his eyes during those times was my answer before I even said a word.”

“He knew what he did was foolish.”

Stopping, she faces him, her face and words solemn. “I suppose he did. I am not sure he regretted the life he chose for us. The nights outside were always filled with fantastical stories and music to take our minds off of the cold, if it was cold, and the lack of food, if there was a lack of food.”

Erik’s eyes are soft, his unmasked cheek dimples. “You do tend to love men who are out of the ordinary – I expect I can thank your father for you even considering loving someone like me – especially as I was then.”

“You were my Angel of Music – Pappa promised you would come to me when he died. How could I not love you?”

“Even when I proved not to be an angel?”

“As with everything my father told me, I always trusted what I could see and touch as much as what he invented.”

“So you knew I was no angel.”

“Let us just say, I strongly suspected a human presence, but was happy to believe the fantasy.” The sound of crunching gravel draws her attention from him, she turns toward the sound and waves at the bulky male approaching them from the warehouse.

Erik follows the track of her eyes and shouts, “Happy New Year, Alfred. We were just having a look at our newest attraction.”

“No one will be wanting to go onto that boat,” Alfred says, spitting out the tobacco giving his teeth their particular shade of brown.

Erik frowns at his head carpenter.

“Sorry, Mr. Y. Sorry, Master Gustave.” Wiping his mouth, the tobacco is dispatched into a handkerchief and stuffed into the back pocket of his coveralls.

“Excuse me?” Christine says

“Master Gust…oh, my goodness. Missus Christine. I…you…oh, my.” Alfred’s pock-marked red nose grows even brighter. “I…the knickers…I thought…”

“It is quite all right, Alfred, your employer made a similar comment to me earlier,” she laughs. “The pants are much warmer than my dresses – particularly when exploring a terrifying Viking boat on a frozen wharf.”

“Yes, missus. The weather is quite frosty – no amount of clothes seem to help, but pants do make sense. Me own missus wears woolen drawers under her dresses.”

Erik clears his throat.

Alfred shakes his head, bowing. “Oh, dear, I best just shut my yap.”

“You are fine, Alfred. No offense taken,” Christine tells him, controlling her laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Your wife is a wise woman.”

“Has the vicomte been here?”

“Ever day. Dunna do much but walk around looking at the beast. Not verra handy. Will rub his hand over the wood and frown. The wood does stink in some places – bloody gorgeous, but smelly. Went below myself when the thing first landed here – not at all pleasant, no sir. Lots of wood shavings – not sure mice would even sleep on them – cold or not.”

“Odd the shavings were left below.”

“Inna just the smell. The boat is wonky – canna believe it ever sailed a pond, much less a sea, like our lady here.” He waves his hand at the breaking whitecaps.

“So it really is not seaworthy – as the previous owners said?”

“Are their holes in the bottom – any indication of why it sunk?” Christine asks.

“They never said it sunk,” Alfred says, walking to the front of the boat. “See here, the wood is badly damaged – like it hit some rocks – no holes, though.”

“Did they say where they were from?”

“Valhalla – a few miles north – found it by one of the cemeteries up there – stuck in a cranny next to a small lake where they fished.”

“Valhalla?”

“Aye, small hamlet – lots of cemeteries in that area.”

“How very fascinating,” Erik says, “Did you examine the hold?”

“No, sir. The vicomte neither. Big lock on the door.”

“You did not break it – he did not ask you to break it?”

“I think it spooked him – me, too,” Alfred says. “Like I said the boat is wonky. Something strange about it, canna put my finger on it, but feels wrong to be messing about with it.”

“Do you think it might be cursed?” Christine asks, tucking her mittened hands under her arms.

“You might think me crazy, but the thing seems sad,” Alfred says. “When the wind comes up, sounds come from inside, like crying.”

“That might well be just the wind blowing through cracks in the wood and the boat rocking on the platform where it sits.”

“Yes, sir, my thought for certain – the vicomte, too…”

“But?” Christine bounces up and down, encouraging him to say more.

“Maybe it comes from working here. Phantasma has all this mystical stuff and wanting people to believe stuff is real when it is not and not real when it is. We want to spook people. This boat is spooky without anything being done. Like a spell or something,” he says, shrugging. “I know I sound wonky myself.”

“After hearing tales about monsters and ghosts – and experiencing the behavior of the owners, it is not surprising the boat seems to be haunted,” Erik says. “I suspect people like to believe in hauntings. I, for one, understand that better than most.”

“I have to agree, Alfred,” Christine glances at Erik. “My father loved telling tales of mystical creatures, particularly angels…Raoul certainly heard his share when we met that summer in Perros.”

“Maybe.” Alfred shrugs. “Here comes the vicomte now. Reason I came out myself – thought you were him.”

“Did he request you accompany him when he comes?” Eriks asks as the threesome walk toward Raoul.

“No, sir, I am afraid to leave him alone – hurts himself on one thing or another every time – nothing much, but if I leave him to himself, I fear he will come to harm.”

A smile breaks across Raoul’s face as they approach. Waving a gloved hand in the air, he motions to the boat - his walk limited by the cane he uses to support his right leg. Hiis misted breath heavy from the exertion. “Happy New Year!” he exclaims, coming to a stop in front of them.

“Happy New Year. What happened to your leg?” Christine asks.

“Oh, I just tripped and fell yesterday when climbing on board the boat,” he says, laughing lightly. “I suppose it has been too long a time since I have attempted to climb aboard any sort of vessel. The rope ladder came loose and I lost my footing.”

Alfred quirks an eyebrow as he looks at Erik. The maestro responds with a nod.

“Did you go to the infirmary?” Christine asks, observing the exchange.

“I did. Yasmine was kind enough to bind my ankle – she is becoming quite used to me, I am afraid.”

“How so?”

“As you well know, I can be quite clumsy,” Raoul laughs. “Seems I have sea legs, but must be at sea for them to work.”

“You think your accidents are funny?” Erik cocks his head, eyes narrowing.

“Not funny – just more common than one might expect,” Raoul mumbles. “Not something I am proud of. Just trying to make the best of an awkward situation.”

“I told the master you have a mishap every time you come here,” Alfred says.

“I have to admit I wondered at his words…no offense Alfred.”

“Some of the others here like to make more of something than it is – not me, you know that Mr. Y.”

“Yes. Still…”

“He is not exaggerating,” Raoul says. “Alfred has actually kept me from a few serious incidents. If I believed in such things, I would say the boat does not wish to be boarded or attended to in any way.”

“Believe them or not – it appears there may be something to hexes and curses,” Christine says. “Remember how my father spoke of such things? I shall admit I found some of his stories to be farfetched, but maybe there are such things as ghosts.”

Erik coughs, covering his mouth to disguise his smile.

“ _Rea_ l ghosts,” she says, sniffing at him. “Not people pretending to be phantoms at certain opera houses.”

“Real ghosts is an oxymoron.”

“Not if you believe in them” is her retort. “Raoul, did you read any Norse myths after seeing the dragon’s head on this boat? Or recall any stories my father told us?”

He shrugs. “The one about the dwarf came to mind – mainly because so many little people work here – two of your children are midgets after all.

Christine turns back to Erik, hands on her hips, “I am willing to bet the only thing haunting this barge is the ripe imagination of the people who live and work here.”

“I suspect you are correct, dear wife,” Erik says.

“You are saying I am deliberately hurting myself?” Raoul growls.

“No, but the men who brought the boat here come from a town called Valhalla – you cannot tell me that Nordic myths are not a part of the folklore at the village. When they found this boat, it likely frightened them – the smell connects with the myth about the dwarf…”

“What do you propose we do, then? The money has been spent and it does seem to fit in here.”

“Is it seaworthy?”

“It can be made such – we have to deal with the smell.”

“The entire vessel needs to be cleaned up. I would like to know what is in the hold,” Erik says. “We can advertise it as haunted – embrace the myth. Maybe use some of the little people to promote it around the park and work on the ride.”

“Alfred, do you think we have any men who can work on the boat without being spooked?”

The carpenter’s eyes widen. “You do not think it is wonky, sir?”

“Of course it is wonky,” Christine interjects. “That is the appeal. That said, I would not allow it be used as a ride on the ocean.”

“Good point,” Erik says. “About the workmen…”

Alfred shakes his head. “I will advertise for some new men. Keep those already here continue to work on the other attractions…and Master Gustave’s project.”

“Might be a good idea for you to work with Gustave as well, vicomte,” Erik says. “The boat seems to have enthralled you and you are about to be a father – I am sure Meg would prefer you in one piece and healthy.”

“But it is my project,” Raoul protests.

“Your project is going to kill you if you allow it,” Erik says. “Come, we were going to the hotel to have breakfast, would you care to join us?” Taking Christine’s arm, he begins walking toward the hotel.

“Come along, Raoul…you, too, Alfred, if you would like,” Christine says, keeping in step with Erik.

“Thank you, Missus, my wife saw me off with a big meal and I have my lunch in the shop,” Alfred says. “I best be finding those new workers.”

“Take the rest of the day off – it is New Year’s Day,” Erik tells him. “I am pleased you were here, however, I shall advise Madame Adele to add a little extra to your pay envelope.”

“Thank you, Mr. Y,” he says as he returns to the workshop. “I will see you tomorrow then.”

“Raoul?”

“I suppose you are right,” Raoul says. “You think I was hypnotized…by the stories?”

“If I had known how suggestible you were, I might have tried a different tack in dealing with you back in Paris,” Erik says. “You might wish to consult Darius – he is on staff to deal with such issues.”

“I am not crazy,” Raoul snaps.

Erik snickers.

“No one is suggesting that,” Christine says as they walk up the street. “Does your leg hurt much?”

“Not as much as my pride – thankfully that is not visible for all to see,” Raoul says, ruefully. “I am just happy Phillippe has not returned yet to see the boat.”

“You fear his opinion?” Erik asks.

“You have met him…Christine knows him well, she can fill you in.”

“He seemed loving.”

“Stop pretending you care,” Raoul says. “I am certain you would like me to be the fool yet again.”

“Actually, no, I do not.”

Raoul casts a look of disbelief at Christine, who shrugs. “What then?”

“I am quite happy with things as they are,” Erik says, as they reach the hotel. “Here we are, let us go inside and get warm.” He ushers Raoul and Christine into the revolving door before following them.

“Will you join us, Raoul?” Christine asks as the men exit the door and enter the lobby.

“No, I told Meg I would be back shortly – she is waiting for me.”

“Fair enough,” Erik says. “Happy New Year to you both.”

“Give her my love,” Christine says, taking Erik’s arm. “Take care of your leg.”

“I will, thank you.” Looking after them as they proceed to the restaurant, a puzzled look on his face, Raoul mutters to himself, “I wonder what he means about being happy with things as they are.”


	18. Pay It Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Christine - talk about the boat, but mostly a fluff chapter.

Christine removes her pea coat, knit cloche and blue plaid scarf – hanging them on the rack inside the doorway to the Eyrie. Grabbing one of the Afghans draped across the back of the couch, she wraps it over her shoulders as she walks to the French doors overlooking the lot where the dragon boat rests. The snow drifts around it, giving the illusion of forging through the ice floes of the Baltic Sea. Her imagination takes her there, remembering Pappa’s story of the great Vikings and mighty ships built on much the same order as the smaller sail boat Raoul purchased on a lark from a newspaper advertisement. The craft is fascinating, there is no denying the draw to such an unusual vessel.

Those vast galleons carried armies to foreign lands to conquer and explore, including North America. Someone with similar memories to hers might well have constructed the sad little boat. She wondered at Alfred’s use of the term when describing the vessel, but looking at it now, the word suits. A boat abandoned on the banks of a small lake next to a cemetery in Valhalla, New York, of all places, which now waits for what – here at Phantasma – Coney Island, New York.

After following her lead with his outer wear, Erik takes care of lighting a fire in the potbellied stove. Coming up behind her, he wraps his arms around her waist. “Forlorn looking, is it not?” he says, laying his chin against the top of her head.

“Sad was the work Alfred used,” she replies, pressing her back against his chest. “Someone crafted it with love, if not skill, then abandoned it and now it finds itself abandoned yet again – not even in water – land bound.”

“Yet, the thing must know it is beloved and not abandoned.”

“Waiting – just waiting.” Shivering, she turns to hug her husband, resting her head against his chest. “This is not where it is supposed to be – not something to be gawked at – it is wrong.”

“Anthropomorphism,” Erik says.

“What?”

“Anthropomorphism – giving human attributes to inanimate objects,” he explains. “We are speaking of the boat as if it were alive and a feeling being.”

“Who knows that it is not?” she says, breaking the hug and walking to the small kitchen. “Tea?”

“I thought maybe a brandy.” Moving to the parson’s table set up with several decanters, he chooses one and pours a finger of liquor each in a pair of snifters. “Tea to follow, but this will help remove the initial chill.” He carries the crystal to the coffee table and sets them down before taking a seat on the long couch. “I do not know about you, but the north wind chilled me to the core.”

“Care for some cookies, or are you full from breakfast?”

“Full and then some – I am still not used to eating large meals, even after all these years – I fear I am catching up to Nadir in breadth.” Getting up again, he goes to the armoire by the door and removes two pair of felt slippers. Removing his shoes, he dons on pair and carries the other back with him to the sofa. “I do believe that Raoul is truly enthralled with her – boats do have that way about them. I wonder if he has named her yet.”

Christine carries the tray with the tea things to join the brandy snifters. Taking her seat, she taps her glass to his and takes a sip, wrinkling her nose and releasing a small whoosh of air. “I shall never get used to the first taste of alcohol – the heat rushes to my head and heart at the same time and I find it hard to breathe.”

“Just as well, brandy and the like are not good for your voice – still, even the short walk from the hotel, after standing outside taking the boat’s measure found me cold to the core. Even being inside eating a hot breakfast was not enough.” Bending over, he removes her shoes, rubbing her feet briskly before putting on her slippers.

Finishing her drink, she pours a cup of tea for each of them, preparing hers with three sugars and cream – leaving Erik’s black. Leaning against the back of the sofa, she says, “I suspect much of the chill we both felt had to do with the dragon’s head and the myths and wondering what the story is behind its winding up here.”

“Could be something completely mundane,” he says, pulling another of the blankets over his lap, leaning back to join her, resting his shoulder against hers, sipping his tea. “Owner died is the most likely.”

“Perhaps,” she agrees. “I am curious about what is happening now – the changes its presence has brought. I am not sure I like this camaraderie between Raoul and you...or Gustave, for that matter.”

“Camaraderie? Hardly.”

“Instead of wishing him gone – you are now embracing him and Meg and their whole set of issues.”

“You mean Phillippe’s interest.”

“That, too,” she says, shifting her position so she is sitting on her hip, feet folded up with her arm against the back of the sofa, toying with his natural hair peeking out from under his wig. “He is not a pleasant man.”

“Some would say the same thing about me,” he chuckles. Taking his mask off, he rests his head on the back of the sofa to look up at her.

“Showing me your unmasked face does not make a case for your being an unpleasant person – I wish you would stop thinking that about yourself.”

“My face is horrible.”

“Most of us do not even notice your features anymore, Erik. Your children, who love you unequivocally, would not even consider your face to be anything other than that of their Papa,” she says. “In any event, for all his refined good looks, Comte Phillippe de Chagny is a cold and distant bastard – unless he has changed over the years.”

“You think he is good looking?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes.” Smacking him on the chest, she says, “Yes, he is handsome. Just as Raoul is handsome. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Quite a lot at one time.” The smirk on his face belies the truth of his words.

“At one time – not this time,” she says, kissing his forehead where the unblemished, smooth line of his forehead meets the area where the mottled skin does not quite meet to cover his skull. “Judging from what you consider to be your “good” side, I imagine you would outshine both brothers. Perhaps the gods, in giving you all your other gifts, kept that one so you would not be completely intolerable.”

“Instead they blessed me with an almost entirely intolerable life,” Erik guffaws. “Those gods did a good job of it, I would say. In truth, I should have preferred to be a tad more ordinary in all areas than have to live with this. My life would have been immeasurably easier.”

“But you would not have your genius…and, strange as this may sound, you would not now have this life – with Phantasma, the children, our home…me.”

“So I was paying it forward?*”

“In a sense, I suppose,” she says, leaning over to kiss him on the distorted edge of his mouth. “Although, I wish, how I wish, you could have had that ordinary life and not have suffered all you have.”

“I would say our life, while not ordinary by many standards, does fit into the realm of being happy – at least for me, I cannot answer for anyone else,” he says, taking her cup, putting it next to his on the table, before slipping his hands under the soft wool of the blanket, grabbing her in a hug to tickle her rib cage.

“Stop. Stop. You are a terrible man. You know what torture this is for me,” she gasps, lifting her knees, attempting to rock away from his long fingers. “I give up,” she exclaims, throwing her arms over her head as she opens her knees, wrapping her legs around his waist, shifting her body so her groin is pressed against his.

His response to her movement is almost instantaneous. “I rather like you wearing pants, I cannot imagine us being in this situation were you burdened with one of your dresses.” He slides a hand under her bottom and rubs himself against her.

“I think I should like this better without any clothing – in some ways dresses and pantalets were more agreeable to an act of intercourse where time was brief and the need great.”

Sitting back on his knees, he undoes the buttons on her knickers and pulls them down along with her drawers. Christine helps kick them off, leaving the lower half of her body naked. Her arms still above her head, she lifts her knees opening herself to him. Lowering one hand to her vagina, she fingers herself – grinning broadly at him.

Standing just long enough to remove his own trousers, he returns to the couch. Kneeling in front of her, he pulls his Afghan over his shoulders before scooping her legs over his arms and presses his length against her fingers. “You are ready?”

“Mm, hmm.” She murmurs, taking his member, positioning him before lifting her hips, allowing him entrance.

“Oh, my dear, you are indeed ready – I did not suspect.” Pushing his length into her, they easily find their rhythm, Erik pressing deeper and harder to the sounds of Christine’s moans of pleasure. Their voices join in sounds of carnal pleasure just as with the other duets they sing. Perfectly in tune.

“Now,” she breathes – the words as much a plea as a command.

With a few final thrusts, they climax together, the ending a small shudder, and two deep sighs.

Collapsing against her, his breathing heavy, he says, “I am sorry that was so fast – I did not pleasure you as you deserve.”

“You were perfect – exactly what I wanted,” she assures him as she strokes his back.

“Are you certain?”

“Next time – this time I just wanted you…and you wanted me,” she laughs. “Sometimes it is fun to just play – do something new and silly. Was it fun for you?”

“Fun? Play? Silly?”

“Yes. It was. I know it was – you liked pulling off my pants. After all this time, you are still…tentative with me at times. Today you just did something you would never have done before.”

“I suppose I did – you were certainly brazen – I think you should wear them more often. I hated you playing the page boy in Il Muto, although the costume was…intriguing.”

“I knew it – you wanted sex when you first saw me in them this morning.”

“My lovely wife, I always want sex with you.”

“Can we just hold one another now?”

“With pleasure,” he says, making certain they are covered against the chill lingering in the large room with its tall ceilings and skylights, despite the fire burning in the cast iron stove.

Taking a few moments to arrange themselves, Erik resting on his side, Christine tucked up against him, her head on his arm, a hand pressed against his chest, she toys with the buttons of his shirt. “I like you in the flannel – it reminds me of Pappa.”

“It has taken some getting used to,” he replies, smoothing a few curls away from her face. “There were so many years when clothing of any sort was a luxury – or I was told to wear certain outfits – to suit the shah or the sultana. Dressing in fine clothing gave me a sense of pride in myself.”

“I can understand that,” she replies. “I learned to sew in order to remake clothing given to us by the church. Most dresses did not fit me or were so badly worn, often times I had to patch one or two or three together to make something I could wear.”

“Did you never have a new gown?”

“Not until you provided me with a wardrobe full,” she laughs. “You were so kind to me and I did not truly appreciate you.”

“I was less than a perfect suitor,” he sighs. “That was so long ago, I can hardly remember it – or at least try not to.”

“I do. Now more than ever.”

“How so?”

“Raoul…Phillippe,” she says, lifting up on her elbow to face him. “I do not want them here.”

“Really? I thought everything was going so smoothly,” he replies. “All of us getting along.”

“I thought it might be nice – I did not want to disappoint you.”

“ _I_ did not want to disappoint _you_.”

They break out laughing, both shaking their heads at their folly.

“If Phillippe wants Raoul to return to Boston with him – let him go.”

“The boat?”

“Burn it.”

“Christine!”

“Have someone else burn it.”

Erik looks at her askance. “Unfortunately, burning teak is not all that easy – judging from the foul odor, I believe the carving allowed nature to have her way with the wood – that and the weather has made the wood very damp – so difficult for a fire to start. In any event, the fire would have to be very hot to do any damage. Now if those wood shavings caught fire, that might do the trick…”

“Then do it – or have someone else do it,” she says. “The thing is cursed, or at minimum haunted.”

“You are serious.”

“I am. Raoul brings no happy memories for either of us. If the boat is what would keep him here, get rid of the boat. Set it out to sea. If the builder believed in the myths, then the original intention was for that to happen. The seas being what they are, it would disappear in no time.”

“Meg?”

The heat in her face speaking about Raoul vanishes – her features are frozen – her eyes cold and icy. “You have to ask? Whatever friendship we had…even with her mental issues…I find it difficult to be around her. I doubt even Adele wants her here anymore. Nadir certainly does not. In truth, Meg would probably enjoy living nearby to Sorelli – they were very close at one time.”

“I find the boat rather fascinating – I do think it could be used to the advantage of the park.”

“Keep the damned boat then, but do not obstruct Phillippe when he comes next week.”

“He is bringing Sorelli?”

“Yes, I was surprised when she telephoned me, I spoke to her before Christmas – inviting her to a day of shopping. She said she would let me know, but it took her weeks to call back. Even then it was a rather strange conversation – said she missed all of us and was excited to see Phantasma.”

“Why was that strange?”

“Well, for one thing, I never mentioned Phantasma. The plan was to meet in Manhattan – or that was the idea Adele and I thought to do. But it was something in her voice – she was always such a diva – so secure and better than the rest of us, or so it seemed. Her tone was almost meek, pleading – as if we would refuse to see her.”

“I suppose that is why Phillippe contacted me to make the arrangements – said Veronique would love to see Phantasma, and he wanted to treat her to more excitement than Boston offered.”

“Maybe he has warmed up,” Christine mutters. “The fact he finally married her. Despite all her beauty and haughty nature, she was still a ballet girl to him. She was never included in family activities.”

“From the way you talk about them, you might have preferred not to have been included.”

“I suppose,” she says with a smile. “The only ones seeming to be content were the sisters and their husbands. I suspect not much has changed in that regard.”

“You never speak of them – you do not miss them?”

“They lived their own lives – it was as though we were living in a boarding house – acquainted with one another, but not intimate in any way. Days could pass without any of us seeing the others.”

“Considering our lives now, that situation does not sound too awful,” Erik jokes, stroking her cheek. “I am only happy we have the Eyrie as a respite, even though, at this moment, I am still bracing for Gustave to come bursting through the door accusing us of behaving badly.”

“He does have a talent for that, does he not?” She giggles. “I often feel as though I am the child and he my scolding parent.”

“Seriously, though, I cannot recall seeing you so upset – I had no idea you were so disturbed by the business with the boat.”

Sighing deeply, she says, “I did not realize it myself. Despite everything seeming fine, there is this undercurrent – Raoul is obsessed with the thing and I am concerned about Gustave.”

Erik nods. “We shall work this out. I will not have Gustave hurt anymore by that family. I love him so much, I feel my heart will burst sometimes.”

“We are lucky.”

The doorbell rings.

“Do you think?”

“I do not know how he could have gotten here – or why he would want to come here when Julia was at the house.”

“Then who?”

RINGGGGG. RINGGGG.

“Someone who is in distress, if the bell is any indication.” Erik throws off the blanket, grabs his trousers and pulls them on. “Best get dressed.”

RINGGGG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The expression “pay it forward” comes from the book IN THE GARDEN OF DELIGHT by Lily Hardy Hammond, published in 1916 (the year when this story takes place). On page 209, Hammond coins the phrase "pay it forward", with the sentence: "You don't pay love back; you pay it forward." Erik’s reading taste is eclectic, so in an altered universe, he may well have read this now classic novel.  
> **"God who holds the children dear…” First line of a Swedish prayer.


	19. Little Lotte Let Her Mind Wander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul suffers from his obsession with the boat.

Little Lotte Let Her Mind Wander

RINGGG.

Trousers in place, shirt buttoned, Erik grabs his mask, smooths his wig and turns around to check on the state of Christine’s dress.

“I am fine.” Having tucked her knit blouse into the knickerbockers, she focuses her attention on retying the ribbon holding her hair in a ponytail. “Go answer the bell before I begin screaming and there will be two emergencies.” Waving a hand at him, she gathers the two Afghans and returns them to the back of the couch.

“If it is about that damned boat…” he mutters, trotting to the door leading out to the elevator. The lift and staircase are locked at the first level, preventing anyone from using either. To find out who is ringing the bell, it will be necessary for him to go down and let them in. On a normal day, he would not have locked everything up, but he and Christine needed time alone without interruption. “In the old days, at the Garnier, they would have fallen down a hole or dumped in the lake for attempting to disturb us.”

“The sooner you get down there, the sooner this will be over and we can be alone again,” she calls after him, clearing the dishes from the coffee table and carrying the tray into the kitchen. Returning to the great room, she pulls on a flannel shirt left behind by Gustave, slung over a chair at the drafting table.

The top she created by cutting the bottom from a union suit was warmer than her usual cotton blouses, but the room is determinedly frigid. Shivering slightly, the potbellied stove is her next stop to throw in another log. Erik will have to engage the radiators when he comes back. However attractive the little cast iron stove might be – this room was more than it could heat however many logs she could toss in.

Satisfied she and room are presentable to anyone who comes through the door with Erik, she sits down on the couch to wait. Her thoughts go back to the discussion about the boat, Raoul and Meg – telling Erik she wanted all three gone. The boat convinced her the situation with all of them in such close proximity will not work.

When in their home at Bay Ridge, life is calm, despite the noise of the children and the general activity of such a large household, but it is healthy, life affirming activity. Even Phantasma, the nature of which is about oddities and people who are not considered normal, is a happy place – something she experienced in the past traveling with Pappa. The rides and attractions all created to provide entertainment to encourage people to leave their stress behind for even a short while.

The pirate schooner attraction Gustave is designing is to encourage entertainment. Whatever Raoul originally intended with his purchase of the boat – the dragonhead boat so reminiscent of the Norse myths Pappa recounted when she was a child – his obsession with it now and the strange occurrences being whispered among the staff – has her anxious. Alfred fairly confirmed no one wanted to go near the thing.

Whatever was in the hold was likely the key – better if no one found out the contents. The stories about owners of boats wanting to be buried in their ships with pets and servants keeps coming to mind. At this point, she is certain remains of once living beings will be found behind the locked door. Best no one see inside. If she has such thoughts, no doubt Raoul’s mind is doubly full of all sorts of fantastical thoughts – judging from his obsession.

Erik’s voice rouses her. Nadir and Alfred, half carry, half drag someone she is not quite sure she recognizes. The body appears to have no will. The look on the rescuers faces are strained, perspiration beading on both their foreheads despite the freezing weather.

“One step at a time – just lead him in here – we need to get him into the bathroom,” he says. “Christine could you run a tub, please. Water not too warm.”

“Who is it?” She gets up and stops the procession.

“Raoul,” Nadir says. “Damned near drowned.”

“What?” Lifting up the chin of the water soaked man, she finds Raoul’s eyes lack focus, his face pale, lips turning blue.”

“Jack called me from the bar – said he thought he saw a body lying on the beach, under the pier – thought it might be Raoul.”

 _“Herregud,”_ she says, her own face pales. She presses a hand against Erik’s chest to steady herself. “That makes no sense, he was returning to the hotel when we last saw him.”

“Jack said he came in and had a couple of drinks, downed them fairly quickly, muttering something about ‘making this work’ then left.”

“But he stopped drinking,” Christine argues.

“Not entirely,” Nadir says. “He was drinking the night of the accident – could have really hurt Meg. Got lucky…again.”

Looking up at Erik, she says, “You did not tell me.”

“It was explained as a momentary lapse,” Erik says. “He asked no one be told – besides those present. I believed him. What would have been the point in telling you?”

“I am your wife.”

“And he was your husband,” Erik counters, holding her shoulders, his eyes soften the words. “It was a medical situation – I was helping treat him. He asked for privacy. I gave it to him – the point is moot. He had one drink then and caused an accident. He had another now and nearly drowned himself. Perhaps this time he will finally understand alcohol is not compatible with his temperament. One might have thought losing his wife would have convinced him the first time – but it is an addiction.”

“But surely not since,” Christine argues through pursed lips. Angry at Erik from withholding information about Raoul. Angry because Raoul is still an issue in their lives. Why does this issue have to come up over and over? Erik is right, of course, nevertheless…life would be so much simpler if Raoul was gone. “Everything seemed fine at Christmas.”

“Would you two mind having this conversation some other time,” Nadir complains. “Alfred and I are growing weary of lugging his dead weight around.”

“Lay him on the floor, then,” Erik says, “he will not know the difference.” To Christine he says, kissing her on the forehead before releasing is hold, “He creates his own problems. Never mind the bath. I can take care of that. Perhaps find some clothing in the bedroom…or better yet, my study – the armoire should have some older, heavier garments to fit him. We need to warm him up as quickly as possible. Stockings, do not forget stockings.”

“Of course,” she says, glancing once more at Raoul, she moves swiftly to Erik’s study. “Should I make up the bed? Although he might be better here on the sofa – the rest of the Eyrie is cold – the stove is almost useless.”

“In here. I need to turn on the radiators, but first the bath…” Erik says, heading for the bathroom. “Then in here – definitely not our bedroom.” His look pointed.

“Of course – silly of me to suggest it.” Christine nods before continuing on her errand.

“We can deal with him,” Nadir says. “Alfred, let us get him moving again.” He and Alfred hoist Raoul once more, walking him slowly through the room. “The reason we brought him here was to prevent any gossip.”

“Not a problem.” Erik says, his tone cold suggests it was a big problem.

“It was not our intention to disturb you…or create marital issues.”

“Let us just get on with it.” With that he goes into the bathroom.

Raoul groans and tries to find his footing.

“Thanks be to God,” Alfred says. “He be comin’ back to life. Shunna be such a dead weight now.”

“Damned troublesome human being,” Nadir says, as he and Arnold to deal with getting him across the room.

“I found these,” Christine says, coming from the study, holding a stack of white garments and a heavy sweater and loose pants. “Why is he still in those wet clothes and not in the tub?”

“We…uh…”

“Just get moving,” she says, pressing the clothing into Nadir’s arms. “I swear, I suppose he is lucky you got him this far.”

Erik suppresses a chuckle as he re-enters the great room.

“Do not make fun of me,” she scolds.

“Never, my darling.” Touching her lightly on the nose with his finger. “This is a perfect example of why women make better mothers than men,” he says, continuing past the men. “The water is running and a large stack of fresh towels are on the vanity. Time to tend to the furnace. Hopefully you will have him undressed and in the bath by the time I get back. The sooner he is defrosted, the sooner he will be gone.”

Nadir grumbles and nods to Alfred, “I am beginning to wonder why I even came here today.”

“To save a life, mebbe,” Alfred says, pulling up the rear, half carrying, half dragging the vicomte past Erik and out of the great room. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. The missus tells me that all the time. This could be one of those times.”

“I shall make some tea and raid the pantry to see if there is anything to eat.” Once in the kitchen, she rummages through the larder, pulling out a quarter round of cheese and some apples. A baguette of bread and some chocolates left over from Christmas round out the edible food. The kettle is refilled with water, the flame on the stove lit. Dishes are pulled from the cupboard, napkins and tableware from a drawer next to the sink.

Satisfied she has pulled together a decent meal for the men, she sits down at the small round table to wait for the water to boil. With the barest of shudders, her composure fades and tears flood her eyes. Deep sobs come unbidden to release the tension held in since the alarm was raised. Despite the playful moments she and Erik shared, visiting the boat left her tense. The urgency of the ringing bell and seeing Raoul seemingly near death, wound her even tighter.

For a few brief moments, time moved backwards. She was in Paris again in the Chagny mansion watching the butler and Phillippe drag Raoul into the house, drunk to the point where he could not carry himself...neither knowing where he was nor caring.

The difference was the absence of Phillippe’s cold grey glare, blaming her for the failings of his brother. The embarrassment she brought to the Chagny name. If Raoul had married as he should have, there would be no need to drown his sorrows in alcohol, gambling and any ballet girl who would have him – and there were several. Or, at least that is what his look told her. Never would he admit his younger brother simply never grew up – never learned to become an adult – acting on whims believing his charm and his name were enough for a happy life.

Erik pokes his head into the room. “There you are. We should be feeling some heat shortly.”

She looks up at him, her eyes red from the flood of tears. “Hold me,” she says, standing up, opening her arms.

Gathering her close, he rubs her back and asks, “Why the tears? It was not my response about the accident – Raoul drinking. I simply did not want him intruding on our life again…but here he is.”

“Yes, here he is,” she says, “Bad memories. This happened ever so often – Raoul drunk, Phillippe bringing him home, me being blamed.”

“You? Why?”

“You know why – at least the externals,” she says, breaking away as the kettle announces the water is boiling. “The marriage was a failure and Phillippe believed it was all my fault. Easier than seeing his part. I wonder if Raoul is having his own bad recollections.”

“So you think Raoul is panicking because Phillippe is here.” Erik helps her load a tray with the food and dishes. He carries it into the great room, setting it on the coffee table.

Christine follows with the tea pot. “That and the boat not being what he dreamed it might be,” she says, setting the pot on a hot pad. “What was it Jack heard him say – something about making something work?”

“Then he walks off to the ocean.”

Nadir clears his throat as he returns to join them. “Well he is in the bath. Alfred is taking care of him. No need for both of us tending to him,” he says, grabbing a piece of cheese and a slice of bread before flopping into an armchair. “Left my overcoat in the bathroom along with Raoul’s clothing – everything got soaked. Do you suppose you have a cloak or something I can use when we leave – Arnold will likely need something as well?”

“I am certain something can be found for you to wear,” Erik says. “I should open a haberdashery.”

“Raoul’s clothes were wet?’ Christine asks, pouring a cup of tea for herself and Erik. Taking hers and handing him his before sitting on the couch next to him.

“Had we not found him, he would have been pulled out to sea by the tide or died of exposure.” Rising from the chair he pours his tea with his requisite sugar cubes and returns to the chair. “For someone who claims to know so much about the sea, you would think he would know the danger.”

“Perhaps he did know,” Erik suggests.

“Erik, no,” Christine says. “If anything he finally found a life to live. He has never been happier – much as I wish he were living it somewhere else.”

“I have to agree with Christine on this,” Nadir says. “Meg has said as much. She has spoken to Darius about a divorce and wears a ring Raoul gave her. Adele is both happy and upset at the same time – much like you, Christine.”

“Suspicious of both of them, I suspect,” Erik says. “Not surprising. Neither one of them has acted with much sense for some time now.”

Muffled shouts come from the bathroom…”Mr. Y…Mr. Khan! Help. I need help.”

Erik and Nadir find Alfred on his knees at the side of the tub, the arms of the construction boss straining to hold onto the younger man flailing his arms, struggling to loosen the hold on him.

Nadir kneels down next to Alfred, taking his place, to help keep Raoul’s head from going under the water.

Raoul’s body slides from their grasp.

“Erik, you have to get him from the front – he is slippery…we have nothing to grab onto,” Nadir pleads. “At this point neither of us has the strength – I am worn through.”

Erik bends his head, closing his eyes.

“Erik?” Nadir says. “Snap out of it. I do not know what you are thinking about, but stop it right now. He could drown now in this bathtub, with three of us looking on.”

“Of course. Of course.” Looking at his hands, a look of surprise that they are clenched on his face. Shaking off the tension, he takes a deep breath and, after kicking off his slippers, steps into the tub. Kneeling down, his legs straddling Raoul, he slips his arms under the vicomte’s armpits. Grabbing the edge of the tub to support his arms, Erik lifts him so his head and shoulders are out of the water.

Alfred and Nadir each take an arm to drag him onto the floor, Arnold cradling his body on his lap. They make quick work, both covering him and drying him with the towels.

“What happened?” Erik says, getting out of the tub to remove his wet garments, grabbing one of the still dry towels to tend to his own needs. Pulling a pair of under drawers from the pile Christine provided, he dons, them, adding the pair of black drawstring pants. Lastly, he removes his flannel shirt replacing it with an old white nightshirt.

Once dressed, he finds a union suit for Raoul in the pile and hands it to Nadir to get onto him.

“All was fine – he was coming around, then just became dead weight again. Slipped from my grip – cunna get purchase on him.”

Erik kneels down next to them, holding Raoul’s head in his lap. “Raoul. Vicomte.” After slapping his cheeks lightly, the younger man groans and struggles to shake them off.

“Erik, what is going on in there?” Christine calls from outside the door.

“We are taking care of it. Raoul passed out – slipped under the water for a moment.”

“I want to help.”

“No, he is not clothed yet.” Nadir finishes pulling the union suit over Raoul’s legs and torso.

Pushing the door open, she storms in. “It is not as if I have never seen him naked,” she says, going to the medicine cabinet pulling out a bottle of smelling salts. Kneeling next to Erik, she passes the medication under Raoul’s nose.

“What?” his blue eyes open, trying to focus, he settles his sight on Christine. “Little Lotte.”

Pulling back abruptly, she struggles to stand up and moves to the other side of the room. Soft full lips curving down in a frown.

“Little Lotte, the tales of the north are true,” he says, drunkenly, a foolish grin on his face.

“What are you talking about?” Is her curt response.

“The boat…all the stories…Valhalla…the dragon’s head,” Raoul mumbles before closing his eyes again. “I have been there.”

“Delirious,” Nadir says. He and Alfred finish putting on the union suit, a pair of stockings and a woolen shirt.

“Semi-conscious at least…” Erik says, looking at Christine. “Do you know what he is talking about? Little Lotte? Is that what he called you?”

She nods. “When we were children. That was how he introduced himself to me at the Opera House, the night…the night you came through the mirror.”

“Does this have anything to do with the boat?” Nadir asks. “It sounds as though it does.”

“Pappa told us stories about Little Lotte. Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, ‘Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?’”

Erik frowns.

“I told him Little Lotte preferred being asleep in her bed, hearing the Angel of Music sing.” She smiles and begins picking up the wet clothing lying on the floor, noticing Erik’s change in dress, she holds up his discarded garments. “Even when dressed in his old worn garments. You were in the tub?”

“It took the three of us to prevent the vicomte from drowning twice in one day,” Nadir snorts.

The comment brings a smile to Erik’s face accompanied by a small laugh. “You are the only one not requiring dry clothing, my dear,” he says. “Leave them, I will call housekeeping to deal with the laundry.”

“Shall we take him into the other room?” Nadir asks. “This room is too small for all of us and if he gets rambunctious again, I should like it to be somewhere without being threatened with getting soaked again.”

“Of course. The couch would probably be best,” Erik says.

Alfred grabs Raoul’s legs and with Nadir taking his shoulders, they carry Raoul to the couch, lowering him down before tossing both Afghans over him.

“What now?” Nadir asks, flopping back down into his chair. “Alfred sit – have some tea.”

“Thank you,” he says, sitting on the ottoman to Nadir’s chair. “Some hot tea would be welcome. Twas a bit like landing a large fish. Dunno when I have been so tired.”

“I suppose we can sit here and watch him until he wakes up,” Erik says, taking a seat on the Chesterfield, motioning for Christine to sit beside him.

“Maybe some brandy,” she suggests.

“I wonder if the alcohol is what set him off in the first place – not drinking for a long period, then having too much?”

“Meg?” Raoul says, his voice soft, but clear. The confusion in his earlier speech gone. Opening his eyes he sees four pair looking at him expectantly. He struggles to lift himself up on his elbows. “Where am I?” Falling back down, he presses a hand to his forehead. “My head. What happened?”

“You are in the Eyrie having been rescued from drowning at the pier by Nadir and Alfred,” Erik tells him. “Jack saw you and called for help.”

“The pier? Drowning?” He rubs his head. “I have no recollection.”

“When we left you, you were going home,” Christine says as she gets up to prepare some tea for him. “Are you hungry?”

“No, not hungry. Thank you. Tea will be good.” He looks down at the woolen shirt and union suit. “Where…?”

“Some older garments of mine,” Erik says. “With the exception of Christine, we all managed to get our clothing wet.”

Raoul’s eyes move from one person to the other. “Alfred? Nadir?”

“Jack said you had a couple of drinks. He called me – said he saw someone lying in the surf under the pier – thought it might be you. I happened to be in my office. Alfred and I went to get you.”

Raoul shakes his head. “I do not remember any of that.” Turning to Christine, he says, “I remember walking toward the hotel, but wanted to look at the boat again. Trying to see how I can make it work for Phantasma. The thing beckons me, but I get the strongest sense it does not like me. I keep injuring myself. I took some of the pills Meg had for her pain.” He looks at Nadir. “She told me to get rid of the boat. Says she is tired of my coming home with the story of a new mishap every day.” He laughs.

“Well, today, you almost wound up dead,” Erik says. “What medication are you taking?”

Raoul looks around. “Pills. They are in my coat pocket. Maybe I took too many. One forgets when in pain.”

“The alcohol did not help,” Nadir says. “You know what Meg went through to get off those pills – what in Allah’s name possessed you to take them?”

“Ever body says the boat is cursed and haunted,” Alfred says. “Said yourself the thing dunna like you.”

Raoul laughs loudly. “The boat is trying to kill me – is that what you are saying?”

“Not me,” the carpenter says. “You said it – just now.

“I am not superstitious.”

Christine sputters. “You are the most superstitious person in this room, Raoul de Chagny. Pappa could scare you silly with his stories and different ways you could be cursed. On Christmas, Emilie said ‘step on a crack, break your mother’s back’ and you turned white.”

“My mother died when I was born,” he retorts.

“Exactly, I am sure when you went home, you tried to figure out how you might have stepped on a crack while still in the womb.”

“That is not funny, Christine,” he says, but smiles. “You are right, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” she replies softly. “The boat reminds me of Pappa, too. The myths of the north. Fearsome dragons who protect their booty. Whoever make that boat did a good job. Perfect for anyone who knew the mythology.”

“Christine wants to set the boat out to sea,” Erik says. “How do you feel about that?”

“No! Why, Christine?”

“I think it is someone’s death barge. I believe his body is in the hold with a dog or other pet. The boat was supposed to take him to Valhalla. Whoever he entrusted with the task failed. It was found in a lake next to a cemetery.

“The men I bought it from?”

“Perhaps,” says Nadir. “They were supposed to get it to the sea and here we are – at the sea.”

“The workman are afraid of the boat, Mr. Raoul,” Alfred says. “Like we should not be messin’ about with it.”

“Set it out to sea, eh?”

“I think so, yes,” Christine says, checking with Erik. “Do you still want to use it as an attraction?”

“I believe I am overruled – Gustav may take my side in this – he is fascinated by the craft…but, the only luck the boat seems to carry is bad and you, for one, have certainly had your share.”

“Near death can certainly be called bad luck,” chuffs Nadir.

“Should we burn it?” Alfred asks. “Might be hard – the wood is wet – wouldna take a torch easily.”

“No,” Christine says, “just take her to the shore and let her free to go wherever the sea takes her and her master, if he is on the boat. No fires, no cremation. No Viking burial. Just let the thing be gone into the great ocean."

“Does that suit you, vicomte?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Four voices respond in unison.

“We shall make a ceremony out of it,” Erik says. “Respect for the dead. If that is the case.” He sneaks a look at Christine who nods solemnly.

“So be it, Nadir stands up, slapping his legs. “Do you feel able to go to your own home now?”

“Let him stay for a while,” Erik says. “You and Alfred go. I will be certain Raoul returns home safely.”

Raoul attempts to rise again. “You do not have to…”

“True,” Erik says. “Alfred…Nadir…go. I will call Squelch when the vicomte is recovered enough to return home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Y,” Alfred says, walking to the door. “My missus will be wondering where I am.”

“Take my pea coat – hanging by the door.”

The carpenter nods, hurrying to leave.

Nadir pours himself another cup of tea and returns to his armchair. “I think I shall stay – help you get him home. Meg will take hearing the story better from me than you and the strong man.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “As you wish. Is that all right with you, Christine?”

“Fine – not exactly how I planned to spend New Year’s Day, but one makes do,” she sigh getting up, going to the parson’s where she retrieves a deck of cards. Holding them up, she asks, “Anyone interested in a game of Rummy?”


	20. The Ladies Who Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorelli comes to Phantasma.

Christine locates La Sorelli sitting in one of the small dining alcoves, actually the one she often chooses for herself. Phillippe likely remembered their meeting just before Thanksgiving – a conscious decision by him? The first thought entering her head when is _she has faded._ Sorelli was ageless, an icon. There is no reason to be surprised, she herself has aged, after all, even in the seven years since the women last met. Dismissing the thought as quickly as it arose, her mind is still unable to accept the changes in the former prima ballerina from the Opera Populaire.

Anyone meeting her for the first time would see a beautiful woman, hair perfectly coiffed, the black with streaks of white smoothed into a perfect chignon at the base of her neck, a pert bonnet decorated with peacock feathers tilted just so. The blues and greens coordinated to her tailored gabardine suit – the blue of her blouse framing her face. Her skin, once smooth as porcelain, is finely lined, particularly noticeable on her forehead and around her mouth – placing her age in her forties rather than twenties – when Christine first met her. Bright blue eyes flecked with the same yellow as the feathers. Whatever her age, she is stunning, even if her smile does not quite reach those compelling eyes as Christine approaches.

Only his rising from one of the Louis Quatorze chairs alerts Christine to Phillippe’s presence, so taken was she by Sorelli. He indicates Christine sit next to Sorelli - both of them tucked away on the loveseat, unlikely to be bumped into by another patron, but also availing themselves to a view of the entire room. “Madame Saint-Rien,” he says. “I hope you do not mind my asking for this table – I recall this is where you were sitting when we met last.”

“Not at all – you seem to understand the perquisites of this corner,” she says. “As for calling me Madame Saint-Rien, I have been Christine to you for a very long time, I hope we are not going to use formalities now,” she says, taking her seat, reaching next to her taking Sorellli’s hand. “I am so happy you were able to come here…to Phantasma. This is really a much better place for all of us to be together again.”

“I agree,” Veronique says, the smile in her voice now reflects in her eyes as the two women clasp hands. “Your Phantom certainly did create a magical place. I should love to see it when everything is up and running. The lights and the noise – people crowding the boardwalk – so much life.”

“It is quite something, I must say,” Christine says. “My breath was quite taken away when we first arrived. Erik sent a carriage made of glass with a glass horse, all driven by motors and led by carnival characters – some real, some automatons.”

Sorelli laughs. “You always were one to love the oddities in life – I remember how you spoke of your father and his playing at fairs.” Waving her hand in the air, she says, “This place suits you, I think. Beautiful and elegant, but with a sense of whimsy and mystique.”

A flush brightens Christine’s already high color. “Thank you for the kind words. I am not sure I deserve the compliments.” Her eyes go to Phillippe returning to his seat on the other side of his wife. His finely chiseled face is expressionless. Not surprising – she humiliated his brother and was now married to the man who was complicit – not once but twice.

“Of course, you do, Christine, I always believed you would have been happier had you stayed with the opera.”

Sorelli, lowers her eyelids, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Marriage need not end a theater career, Phillippe,” she says. “There is something to be said for a wife who brings her own renown to a couple’s lives – both publicly and privately.”

Phillippe clears his throat. “I am not certain this is the time or place for this discussion. Suffice it to say, I am happy for our marriage and…” turning to Christine, “am pleased for your happiness as well. All is well that ends well, as they say.”

The waiter comes running to the table, slightly breathless. “Missus Christine, I am so sorry, I did not see you enter the dining room,” he says, holding up his pad and pencil. “May I take your order?”

“Please do not worry yourself,” she says. “I think just refresh the tea pot, we are still awaiting Madame and Miss Giry.” Turning to Sorelli and Phillippe she says, “Unless you would like something to snack on until they arrive.” A small watch is pulled from a pocket in her green wool jacket. “I apologize for the delay. Were you waiting long?”

“Not at all, we prefer to arrive early – to take the measure of the room as they say,” Phillippe says, rising from his chair, bending to give Sorelli a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy your luncheon, my dear. I have a meeting with Raoul and Erik in the – what is it called? Airy?”

“The Eyrie – eagle’s nest – Erik’s playroom I call it – you will find it fascinating, I think, Phillippe. You being a man of many interests yourself.”

“Be nice to Raoul, Phillippe,” Sorelli says, giving him an air kiss.

“When am I not?”

A perfectly drawn eyebrow quirks at her husband. “Did you really ask me that? Both Christine and I know better – allow him to be a man and maybe he will be.”

“Veronique!”

“Go on to your meeting – you can put on your nobility act when you are with the Phantom, however I doubt he will be fooled either. You said as much when relating your last meeting.”

Christine covers her mouth to hide the smile threatening to break. To her surprise, he laughs outright at the insouciance of Sorelli’s comments.

“You are right, as always, we are in America now – and, except when meeting with the politicians and visiting nobility, I can be myself.”

“Precisely. Now go, I see you all the time, I should like to visit with our hostess. Shoo.”

A short bow to each of them and he takes his leave.

“I wish you had been present in the household when I was still married to Raoul – life would have been much more agreeable,” Christine says, smiling fondly at the older woman. “How do you manage now with the family?”

“We couples have our own apartments, so I seldom have much contact with them – they could be absolute strangers were it not for Phillippe’s insistence we have dinner at least once a week and some sort of outing once a month.” Sorelli takes a sip of tea, adding a splash of cream. “Do you find the tea here bitter? Perhaps, it is simply my palette. Food itself tastes different here – the cheeses, breads…”

“Our chef is from France, I hope you will find your luncheon and other meals here to be to your taste,” Christine says. “Erik is quite the perfectionist, although food has never been one of those things he cared much about, he does understand the guests here expect the best.”

“Yes. _Erik_ ,” Sorelli smiles. “Your face glows when you speak his name. Were you aware of that?”

“No” is her verbal response, but Christine’s eyes shine. Is it so obvious? She supposes so. Well, good, Erik deserves being loved and if she is an advertisement of that love – so be it.

“Well, it does and you are lovely. So different from the woman I bade farewell to thinking she was leaving for a brief journey to America to sing for the famous Mr. Hammerstein.” She relaxes back into the loveseat, a hand on the arm rest. “You must tell me what happened. Is he really the Opera Ghost we were so frightened by? Did the tale M. Leroux describe in his book bear any truth to your life then?”

“Oh, my, Veronique, the question is difficult to answer and there is no time now to tell you everything,” Christine says. “Some of the Leroux story is true – you would know much of it.”

“I am only annoyed he used me so little in the telling. I was quite enthusiastic about the book when I read the first chapter – I was a major character, but then I simply disappeared from the tale. Poor, Adele took on a significant role. Although, even she was made quite dowdy and demoted in order to fulfill it. I might have been able to discover ways to assist the O.G. I am certain of it.” Her laughter is bell like – light and sparkling.

Christine laughs as well. “Poor Phillippe died.”

“True enough – still I was not even allowed to grieve for him – that bastard Buquet was given more attention and misplaced reverence.” Leaning forward, resting her arms on the table, hands folded, she cocks her head. “Seriously, Leroux painted him to be quite a reclusive, murderous fellow…and quite ugly. You truly believed he was an angel and later fell in love with him? My relationship with Phillippe is positively dull in comparison.”

Christine nods. “He was like no one I have ever known or dreamed might exist. Extraordinary in most every way – both good and bad, I have to say.”

“The deaths?”

“Buquet was an accident, Piangi had a heart attack and…well, Phillippe is alive. His past...well, is past. Truthfully I was not aware of how much I cared until things went so terribly awry. In his own way, he made the decision for me. Life with Raoul seemed the right choice. It was not until I was preparing for my wedding, did I realize how much I cared. It proved to be too late – plans had been made. The city was still up in arms against him...” Christine lowers her head, biting her lip.

Even now – after their years together, happy and loving – there was no denying their love and commitment. Still, any mention of Erik leaving after her risking everything to be with him invites a surge of pain and anger to well up inside her. Time has dulled the sense of loss and hopelessness, but the ache, ever so vague, remains.

“He left you believing it was best?” Sorelli’s voice in itself is consoling.

Christine takes a deep breath and nods.

“But he did not explain that to you?”

“No,” Christine looks into the sympathetic eyes. “No. He left as I slept.”

“Men are such cowards, my dear friend,” Sorelli laughs lightly, “and yet we love them despite their foolishness. Oui?”

“I have never spoken to anyone about this.”

“Even Erik?”

“Oh, yes, in fact it was the very first thing we discussed when I arrived here.”

“But no friends – no confidantes?”

Christine shakes her head.

“Then I am pleased to be here for you – if you should like – I am without anyone myself,” the ballerina squeezes Christine’s hand again. “Friendship is good. You are not friends with Adele and Meg despite this luncheon?”

“Not really. That we speak at all is something of a miracle.”

“Ah, I see there is much more to this story – one that may take many luncheons for us to discuss. Good, that means I can share with you my own stories.”

“I believe I should like that – but you live in Boston.”

“Things can change,” Sorelli says. “One other question…Gustave?”

“Gustave is Erik’s son.”

“Of course. Raoul never confirmed that when he returned. There were always doubts, but you might have sensed that. The knowledge of Meg’s child being Raoul’s is very much on his mind. That he never spoke of you once Raoul returned to France, having left you here, suggests he was aware Gustave was not an heir.”

“Was it difficult for Raoul?”

“Raoul makes everything difficult – from his own behavior. I believe Phillippe was relieved – a family matter he no longer need be concerned about,” Sorelli says. “How the family presents is always his primary concern. I, myself, am an example of his protectiveness of the name.”

“I am sorry.”

Sorelli waves the sympathy away. “Marriage was not something I particularly wanted. My fame was greater than the Chagny name.”

“And yet?”

“Wise woman,” Sorelli says, taking a sip of tea. “And yet, there were times when he behaved as though I would be nothing without his patronage. Little things. A dinner out when I was not recognized. Puffed himself up like a pigeon on those occasions. He envied me.”

“Why marry now?”

“The war, it was easier for me to gain passage and travel as his wife. Besides, the ballet was a thing of the past,” she sighs. “In short, time had caught up with both of us – the games were over and we acknowledged our bond to the death – which was becoming more and more likely.”

“Children were never considered?”

“Considered, perhaps, but not created – had I conceived, but it was not to be.” Bowing her head, she readjusts the napkin on her lap. “Raoul was the last best hope for a child to carry the family name.”

“But Gustave did not suit him? His ideas about family?”

“Oh, Gustave would have been perfectly suitable – however, from his birth, Phillippe never believed he was Raoul’s child. He knew you would leave eventually.”

“Why?”

“You were not of his station in life – eventually you would leave and take your son. That it took you ten years was the surprise.”

“He said that.”

“Not in words, he just knew – you were always too lively, too independent…too gifted. Once Raoul was soliciting concerts for you, we both knew the marriage was over.”

“He spoke of this with you?”

“I told him – you were different and, like myself, living in that tomb was not the most agreeable place for a young woman to spend her time.”

Christine stares off looking at the distant past in her mind’s eye. “If I had known where Erik was, I believe I would have left.”

“There. You see I was right. I look forward to meeting your Erik – he seems quite remarkable,” she says. “Your ring – I have heard them called “Mother’s Rings.” Cocking her head, an eyebrow raised.

Christine rubs her finger over the Christmas gift from Erik. “Yes. We have five children – two adopted.”

“But there are six stones.”

Christine’s breathe hitches, “A child we lost.” Turning away, she brushes a tear threatening to form in her eye. Looking up, she waves her hand at the two women approaching. “Adele and Meg.”

“Time is an interesting thing,” Sorelli says, locating the two women walking toward them.

“In what way?”

“Adele looks younger than I remember, in her perpetual black, but, if I am not mistaken, with a touch a red at the throat and in her bonnet. Meg, poor dear – the tan does not suit her at all – washes out her pretty pink coloring. She hardly resembles the young dancer I took under my wing. What aged her so?”

“So many things – some I know – others I know about, but do not feel comfortable discussing.”

“Adele used her here I suspect,” Sorelli says. “It was common enough in Paris, she protected Meg then, there were other girls to satisfy the patrons. What of your Erik – did he protect her?”

Christine clears her throat. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, my dear, I meant no insult to you or your love,” Sorelli pats Christine’s hand. “I simply meant what I asked. Was he protective of her or did he leave that to Adele?”

“Meg loved him. He took care of her – made her a star here.”

Sorelli nods, knowingly. “I am sorry for her then. He did not see her at all.”

Wanting to defend him, Christine argues, “He made certain everyone was taken care of – he is the same way with everyone here.”

“Tut, tut, Christine, I am not accusing him of some failure of responsibility. I am speaking purely of his masculine desires. He might have used her for himself and tossed her aside, but it seems that is not the case.”

“No, it was not – had he known how she felt…” Christine stops, aware Sorelli is lost in her own ideas of Meg and Erik’s relationship and leaves her to them.

“For some men there is only one love. With others…well…which means Adele took advantage of her.” Shaking her head. “A shame – Meg was such a pure spirit – I hope Raoul can bring her some happiness, although I think he mostly loves himself.” Her attention turns completely to the Girys as they approach the alcove. “Adele. Meg. I cannot believe I am seeing you. It has been too long.”

Christine stands up to welcome the women, each receiving a kiss on the cheek and assistance with their chairs. "Shall I call the waiter or would you like to have a cup of tea first…or an aperitif?”

“The aperitif, I think,” Adele says. “We can look at the menu and order when he brings the drinks.”

“Sorelli – I cannot believe it is you,” Meg says, unfolding her napkin, placing it on her lap. “So many times I have thought of you over the years – wishing I could see you again.” Tears come to her blue eyes.

“We did have some happy times, did we not?”

Meg nods. “You were my idol – all I ever wanted was to dance as you did.”

“Ah, ma petite, you were much more ethereal than I – I was the avenging angel – you the delicate fairy.”

“You could play any role, Veronique, your skill was such,” Adele says. “That is why you were prima ballerina when others came and went.”

Meg bows her head.

“Ah, but young Meg Giry was light as air, you wondered if her feet actually touched the ground when she danced. And her jetes! Well, she literally took flight.

Meg’s smile when she looks up is bright and with the smile her entire face loses some of the hard edges and lines formed over the past years.

“Adele – America seems to agree with you,” Sorelli continues to charm the women. “Are you still managing the talent?”

“The entire park…well with Erik and my husband.” Her posture, always impeccable, becomes even more defined, but the compliment brings a glow to her cheeks.

“Congratulations. Someone you met here?”

“An old friend of Erik’s from his time in Persia – a former sheriff for the Shah.”

“Indeed – Persia – sheriff to the Shah,” Sorelli chuckles. “A Persian showed up at the Garnier after you left…” Looking to Christine, she says, “Found his way into the book, did he not?”

Adele answers, “Yes – that would be Nadir. He was living in Manhattan and came to Phantasma to hear Christine sing – having missed seeing her in Paris. He did not know about Erik’s involvement with Phantasma. The reunion turned out to be life changing for all of us.”

“It would seem we made good matches – not a prediction anyone might have made for us all those years ago at the Palais Garnier, eh?” Sorelli says. “Meg what about you? Was there a romance before Raoul – with your beauty, I cannot imagine you without suitors? I believe Phillippe said you were married.”

“I, um…” Her eyes shift to Christine who watches her, her face absent of any emotion, giving no indication of her feelings.

Sorelli’s eyes follow the same path, the barest of smiles part her lips. “Aha, I sense some drama here.”

“When does the theater lack backstage drama?” Adele says, “Meg could tell any number of stories about our ten years here at Phantasma. Is that not correct, daughter?”

Blue eyes flashing at her mother, Meg says, “There is no drama. I am married to a dear man, who helped me when I was struggling with some health issues,” she replies flatly. “Our lives have taken different paths, so we are divorcing.” Face burning, she turns away from Soreilli’s gaze, picking up her teacup to hide her face.

“She could have had any number of men,” Adele says. “As the star of the Phantasma theater, many men courted her, but she learned early from the Garnier to hold herself apart. Darius was a wise choice – a doctor.”

“Maman, enough.” Taking a deep breath, Meg puts down the cup and says, “Perhaps we could learn about La Sorelli’s experiences and any news she might have from the opera house. I know I should love to hear about Jammes and the other girls.”

“So much to discuss, I am fairly dying with curiosity to learn everything, but I am perfectly content in talking about myself. Some things never change.”

“No, I suppose not,” Adele says.

“I cannot wait to hear all your stories. I miss our backstage chatter.”

“And we have missed you,” Christine says. “You were always able to entertain and cheer us up.”

“There was much to be amused about in those days, even with the rude men and long rehearsals,” she responds. “Ah, here is our waiter. Shall we have some champagne? I believe I would like that.”

“Champagne it is,” Christine says. Looking to Meg, whose face has become its own mask, she adds, “A ginger ale for Miss Meg – the baby and all.”

Meg mouths the words _thank you_ to Christine.

Sorelli meets Christine’s eyes – but the earlier openness is hidden now. As comfortable as she feels right now with her former friend and mentor – one must be cautious. This is neither the time nor place to discuss the events on the pier and Meg’s subsequent breakdown.

Judging from Sorelli’s earlier comments, she is unaware of what happened that night or is keeping her own knowledge of the story to herself. In any event, Christine is not interested in reliving that time now or ever if she can avoid it. Besides, she suspects there might be tales forthcoming from the prima ballerina to be exchanged – a barter, if you will, such as how her comment about things possibly changing. Was Phillippe thinking of moving to New York? All these topics for a later, less tense meeting. Meg has taken this as far as she can without bursting into tears.

“Allow me to order some appetizers to accompany our champagne,” she says.

Accepting Christine’s demurral and change of subject, the prima ballerina tells the waiter, “Better yet, onion soup. If what you say about your Chef, Christine, I might go directly to heaven after eating a bowl – particularly in this hellish weather”

“Very well,” Christine says. “The onion soup all around, Gilles.”

“And do bring the menus with the soup and champagne, young man. I do not know about the rest of you, but I am starved and so pleased I need not worry about keeping my body in a certain shape anymore and can eat any lovely meal should I choose.”


	21. Tomorrow Is Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik ruminates on the past and his relationship to Raoul. Later, he and Christine look at where their relationship has been and where it stands now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could actually stand alone as a one-shot even though it came into being over Raoul's purchase of a boat. Erik ruminates on how Raoul has influenced his life. The second part of the chapter has he and Christine both looking back and seeing their life together as it is now.

The boat should have been dealt with the day Raoul nearly drowned, not once but twice, but against his better judgment, Erik agreed to wait until Phillippe returned to Phantasma.

_“I owe it to him – he gave me the money to repay Gustave.”_

_“He gave you the money because it is part of your inheritance. I have heard your complaints often enough that you were shipped here to America to avoid any more embarrassment over the damned book without a cent beyond your fare and a few thousand francs.”_

_“There is no money. Our lands were overrun – taken by the Germans.”_

_“Raoul, when are you going to grow up?”_

“And when am I going to release myself from the sense of responsibility I feel toward him?” Erik says to no one as he looks out the French windows of the Eyrie at the boat. The boat Raoul is still enamored with and no longer amenable to releasing to the sea – even with a Norse bereavement ceremony. What is worse, Erik understands his obsession – if not the object.

The rest of the group – Raoul, Phillippe, Nadir and, against his better judgment at the invitation, Gustave have yet to arrive. Nadir agreed to pick up the boy up so Erik could prepare himself for the meeting after dropping Christine off. He needed some time to himself, after the small riot that is morning at the Saint-Rien household preparing the children for the day and anticipation for what the day ahead might bring.

There is no rage or even mild anger whenever Raoul comes on the scene anymore. The jealousy and hatred tempered over the years, thanks to Christine’s constant love, is now just an irritation – nevertheless an itch that cannot be scratched. The fact that he even allowed himself to have such a conversation with the boy – he would never not think of him as t _he_ _boy –_ a troublesome creature from his first appearance at the Palais Garnier the night of Christine’s debut – irks him.

What a strange hell was created the night Raoul de Chagny decided to become a patron of the Opera Populaire.

That night was a triumph for him and Christine – the training she received revealed a glorious voice – one that could charm the world if she so chose. He could not be more proud of the young woman who gave meaning to a life filled with a crippling boredom and loneliness. Tedium interrupted only by intermittent work on an opera he could not complete, and playing pranks on the members of the opera company.

By running away from the world, a world harsh and cruel to him, he locked himself in another sort of prison where his only interface with other humans were the Giry’s, who helped him with chores he was unable or unwilling to do for himself.

Christine brought light and life into the darkness. Not just lessons, but conversation and, yes, laughter. The tales of her travels met his and they found a common bond in their love of fair people – not so much those who came to watch the performances. For Erik those memories were harsh – but the other acts welcomed him as one of them – all misfits in one way or another. However, pleasant they may have been, it was not an entirely comfortable trade off.

In the early days of her training, with Christine still believing him to be the Angel of Music, and even after the vicomte interjected himself into her life, Erik was filled with an incredible joy to have been blessed to find such a student. His love knew no bounds, but he never imposed himself on her. It was enough she wanted to sing, wanted him to teach her and wanted to be friends. Such a rare thing for him. Their times together were always filled with music and conversation and the purest happiness he ever knew.

That minimal parcel of time in the space of his life was small and cut even shorter by Raoul and his desire to marry Christine. Her voice would be locked up in the ostentatious mansion the Chagnys called home. What fragments of a heart he had left within him, were soon to be shredded even further.

There was no question he had to release the boy the night of Don Juan Triumphant. Mad with rage as he was, he knew murdering Raoul would destroy any love she might have for him – bad enough she hated him for merely suggesting the pompous crème puff might die.

The kiss – the first one a surprise – oh, what a joyous thing it was. His first kiss and he could not even respond. The second –when she touched his face, so tenderly, after pressing her body against his, holding him close. He could never ever hurt her and if it meant letting the boy go and giving her leave to go with him – then that was how it had to be. He no longer wanted a life filled with hate.

Even when she came back to him – whatever he might have given her – whatever life they might have had together did not seem possible. How could he ask her to travel to America – with no plan beyond escape? Leaving her – with Raoul – was the best thing he could do for her.

Except, in retrospect, it was not.

Here he is again, simply wanting the man who is still _the boy_ to just leave. If he could load him onto the faux Viking death barge, he would. There would be a certain satisfaction in seeing Raoul sail off in the vessel that caused so much fear and anxiety – to the point that his brother revealed his presence in America.

No one was more surprised than Raoul at Phillippe’s living in Boston, having escaped the war-torn continent of Europe intact with sisters, their husbands and a wife – his former mistress, La Sorelli. News of the vessel Raoul purchased was enough for Phillippe to reveal himself. Would he disagree with the plan for his brother’s sake – wanting his happiness? Or agree for the same reason? Who knew what Phillippe knew about Raoul’s sensibilities?

Christine and the Girys’ luncheon today would likely provide some fascinating conversation tonight as they lay in bed exchanging the stories of their day, full of biting comments they kept from the children. Private moments when they could be catty and gossipy – reminiscent of those early days when they first met. Or would they? There was always danger when the past reared its face.

So along with the present day problems, Erik’s journey back to the past – a past he hoped was finally shifted and changed and turned into a vibrant present – has him feel threatened. Christine mentioned her own qualms about digging up the past – not knowing what Sorelli might say, even though she was happy to see her again.

Adele. Meg. Raoul. Even Nadir in his own way, will not let the past die. The wounds healed, but the scars remain as a reminder of the pain. Would the appearance of the ballerina remind Christine of the hurt he caused her?

What would she say about the prima ballerina? Veronique was prima in just about everything – from her dancing skills to her lover. In her own way, she protected the little rats – guiding them towards patrons who would treat them well and away from the abusers. To suggest they avoid the patrons at all was both foolish and fruitless. Adele protected Meg, but part of her position was to please the patrons and finding appropriate companions was expected of her.

Adele told him once of her late husband, Louis, but he often wondered if there was a husband at all and if Meg was the progeny of a patron of an earlier time when Adele was a prima ballerina in her own right. Meg and, later, Christine were under her special care – rushed off after performances before those who supported the opera house were allowed backstage to congratulate the dancers on their performances. If either girl was inquired after, Adele would claim they were already engaged.

It cost her financially until he began giving her money for errands and housekeeping chores…and assist him in collecting his salary from the managers. When Christine’s lessons began, she made excuses when necessary and kept his counsel with her – never suggesting he was anything other than the angel she believed him to be, until…

The fact that Christine was no longer a lowly ballet rat – the vicomte’s position and his youth and, perhaps the additional pressure from the managers, had her deliver not only his note, but his person to Christine’s dressing room.

And with that first of several of Adele’s betrayals, Raoul de Chagny would become a permanent thorn in his side.

So now he has two Chagnys to deal with. Phillippe is actually someone he found pleasant to talk to – underneath the layers of snobbery bred into him, was a man with a sense of humor and a sharp wit Erik appreciated. 

Interesting how Phillippe died in the book. Might have been Leroux’ idea, but Erik now wonders if Raoul made the suggestion.

“I wish this was over.”

“Papa, who are you talking to?” Gustave says, rushing into the great room ahead of Nadir, breathing heavily, pulling up the rear.

“What? Oh, just muttering to myself,” Erik says, smiling at his son. “Why are you winded?”

“You are aware that the elevator is locked?” Nadir growls.

“I am now,” Erik replies. “I seem to have lost track of time.”

“Well, the waiter from the restaurant is actually waiting…downstairs with our luncheon,”

“Why did you just not ring the bell? You never failed to use it in the past – most recently when rescuing the vicomte.”

“Did not work,” he retorts. “I suspected you disconnected the thing after that event.”

“I suppose I did,” Erik admits. “So you have announced your arrival – go let the waiter bring up the food.”

“I can go, Papa.” Gustave starts toward the door.

“No, son – if you do not mind, daroga…”

The wise green eyes shift back and forth between the father and son and grumbles, “It will be my pleasure.”

Waiting until he is out of earshot, Erik motions Gustave to stand beside him at the windows.

“Are you all right?”

Erik wraps an arm around his son’s shoulders, almost even with his own. “How you have grown. I do believe you might well be taller than me very soon.”

“What is wrong, Papa?” The hazel eyes – a combination of his mother and father’s fill with concern.

“I was ruminating about Paris again – I suppose the presence of Phillippe and his wife took my mind back to the time Raoul was courting your mother and I was acting the fool.”

“You are regretting coming to America without her again?”

“I am, and when I see you, I regret it even more – I missed so much of your life.”

“Are you worried I might be upset about letting the boat go?”

“That, too. Raoul wants to keep it – even if we cannot make use of it for Phantasma. He loves the thing.”

“What if Phillippe wants to keep it?”

“That is the question, is it not, and why we are having this meeting.”

“If it will help, I am fine with letting it go. The idea of a ceremony is quite romantic and suitable. Raoul can still help with the pirate attraction. That boat would never work for taking people on boat rides anyway. It really is kind of creepy.”

“I agree about the _creepy_ part – not for myself necessarily, lord knows I am an expert at trickery – but the staff…and your mother… “

“The food has arrived, along with the brothers Chagny,” Nadir calls out from the door.

“Let the games begin,” Erik says to Gustave, giving him another squeeze before welcoming his guests.

“So Phillippe agreed – the boat would be sent out to sea?” Christine says, talking to Erik’s reflection in the mirror. Already in bed, his head is propped up against a pair of pillows, arms behind his head observing her. She unpins her hair, freeing the chestnut ringlets to find their way over her shoulders. The green suit abandoned for a lavender flannel nightgown trimmed in cotton tatting, her purple chenille robe added for extra warmth.

“He said the money was not an issue and understood the discomfort the boat was causing the employees,” Erik replies. “Having been responsible for a large staff himself with the manor and the farmlands, he knew well how a group of people could be distressed and how that could lead to larger problems for the business.”

“When is this going to happen?”

“Tomorrow,” Erik says. “After the meeting, I asked Alfred to moor it at the end of the pier. I promised a small ceremony before setting the thing adrift, otherwise the deed would already be over and done with.”

“Why wait?”

“Trying to be the better man?” He shrugs. “Raoul said he would come up with something – just for those of us who were at the meeting – you need not attend.”

“So you are doing this for Raoul?” she asks, turning off the lamp on her vanity and scurrying to the bed, rubbing her upper arms.

“Quickly, quickly, come in from the cold.” Erik lifts the covers for her. “He was unhappy – he loves that boat.”

Tossing her robe on the end of the bed, she slides in next to him. “You are being quite sensitive to him,” she laughs softly, snuggling close, resting her head on his chest.

“Today had me thinking about the opera house and Paris…La Sorelli…Phillippe…Raoul’s obsession with that boat,” he says as much to himself as to her. “I know how it feels to let go of something I loved when it was best for all concerned – or at least what I believed to be best.”

“I know. If I could change the past…change your leaving without me, I would, but that is not possible,” she says, stiffening slightly. “I do believe, however, we have made the very best of everything since I came to America and we began our life together – our home and family could not be more perfect.”

“You are no longer angry?”

“Do I seem angry or hurt or disappointed in you in any way?”

“All of those?” His tone cynical, accompanied by a dry laugh. “No, but I believe you are an excellent actress and would not wish to hurt me.”

“Veronique commented on how I glowed when I spoke of you,” she says with a small grin.

“Is that so?”

Burrowing closer to him, she says, “I did her about how you left.”

“I suspect you were not glowing then.”

Shaking her head, tears begin to fall. “No. I thought talking to someone other than you, I might be free of all those awful feelings. Instead I became angry with myself.”

“You? Why? You did nothing wrong.”

“I should not still have those feelings – they have nothing to do with us now.”

“Oh, my dearest one, it occurred to me today time can only do so much to ease pain. Injuries create scars as a reminder of what has been suffered." Pulling her closer still, he kisses the top of her head, then brushes away her tears with his thumb. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“I loved you.”

“Shhh,” she touches her fingertips to his lips. “I know you loved me then. I know you love me now and I love you. Never doubt that. The memory will just always hurt – both of us.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Kiss me?”

“You are no longer upset with me or yourself?”

“No. I am tired of being upset – I just want us to be close and happy and not talking about the past.”

“I do detect a glow about you – but then you are an angel.”

“Stop talking.”

“You want a kiss?”

“Yes, now, you terrible man,” she giggles, slapping him on this chest. “Kiss me now.”

“Very well, Madame, since you ask so politely.” He plants a kiss on her forehead.

“That is not what I meant.”

“Where then?”

Christine rolls her eyes and throws a leg over his hips. “Must I seduce you?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You have to ask?”

Reaching her hand up to pull his face to hers, she says, “Stop teasing. Kiss me. Now.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”


	22. Tomorrow Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "funeral" for the Viking Dragonhead boat is on everyone's mind - particularly Raoul's.

“Papa, where are you going?” Emilie asks, pulling herself up onto Erik’s lap, picking up the slice of toast left uneaten from his plate.

“What makes you think I am going anywhere?”

Tapping on the white porcelain covering half his face, she notes, “You have your special mask on.”

“I cannot keep anything from you, can I? You are just becoming too observant for your old Papa.”

The tiny brunette, lowers her eyelids and grins, a deep dimple forming on her left cheek.

Christine says that this beautiful child sitting on his lap would be the image of him had he not been born with his multiple deformities. Medical science suggested some of the defects, such as his oddly formed lips might have been resolved with treatment had he been born now, rather than his roughly fifty years already lived. Too late now. He is grateful the mottled skin covering half his face only presented itself on her ear and neck – the same as her brother, Gustave.

Little Joshua avoided even that. The toddler was in every way a normally formed boy – his mother’s child in appearance. So far the only talent, if you wished to see it as such, seeming to reflect his father, was taking things apart to see how they work. Gustave would say the chubby little boy with his bombastic personality, was simply destructive with no creative ability at all.

_“He just likes breaking things, Papa.”_

_“You misjudge him, son.”_

_“And he is loud and noisy.”_

_“We will channel that by teaching him to sing..”_

_“He sounds like a dog barking.”_

_“I have been told that in the past, I, too, have been known to bellow. Then a musical instrument to play or teach him to draw.”_

_“Seriously, Papa, I think there is something wrong with him.”_

Looking at the sunny child with chestnut curls like his mother, sitting in his high chair, trying his hardest to avoid the spoon of oatmeal Christine is trying to feed him, Erik finds Gustave’s words come back to him. He was particularly high strung and resisted discipline, however mild the rebukes. A short attention span had Erik particularly concerned – one cannot achieve much in life without the ability to concentrate. Still, he was quite young still and quite spoiled. He would have to discuss this further with Christine when they were not planning a funeral for someone they were not even certain to have existed.

Neither Christine nor the nanny has mentioned anything odd in Joshua’s development. He loved to play with his siblings – Henry taking a special interest in him. The older boy’s smaller size was a real asset dealing with a toddler. For one, it was easier to keep up when Joshua learned to, if not run, then walk away when trying to escape bath time or some other activity he was disinterested in. The relationship also gave Henry special status in the household for this reason. His patience was without bounds. No matter how much Joshua acted up, Henry was able to deal with him and the baby adored him.

“Henry,” Christine calls.

“Yes, Maman,” the towheaded midget, runs into the Conservatory from the hall.

“Could you feed Joshua, please? Papa and I have an appointment this morning and he is being particularly contrary this morning.” She gets up from her chair, allowing Henry to take over the oatmeal bowl and baby.

“You are going out,” Emilie declares. “I told you.”

“Indeed you did,” Erik says, removing her from his lap.

“But it is Saturday,” she grumbles. “You do not work on Saturday and why is Maman going with you? Today we have singing lessons.”

“We shall only be gone a short while,” Christine says. “You and Margaret can practice what we learned last week. After half a beat, she looks around the room – where is Margaret?”

“We were in the kitchen helping Helen with the cupcakes she is making,” Henry says.

“I was helping, too,” Emilie says. “I just wanted to see Papa.”

“I am certain you were giving everyone the best instructions, Em,” Christine says, winking at Erik.

“Someone has to,” the girl retorts. “I wanted to put color in the frosting to make it purple, like your dressing gown, Maman.”

“Margaret was making the frosting, you just kept getting in her way, so Helen told you to come in here.”

“She was not using the right color…she was putting in red.”

“Red with white makes pink – add a little blue and you have lavender,” Erik says. The girl was more like him than he cared to admit. Nothing ever suited her and poor Margaret was often the brunt of her criticism. Margaret, like Henry, was eternally patient with Emilie and her demanding nature. The twins were such a blessing to the household. Bringing them home after the fire was one of the best decisions he ever made. The idea of having children never occurred to him when he was younger – now he could not imagine a life without them.

The children had been well raised, leaving Erik and Christine perplexed as to why their parents took them to the orphanage. They were calm and good natured and always willing to help, never raising a fuss. He was not certain if their size was ever an issue before Miss Fleck brought them to the Little People’s Village. Both he and Christine vowed they would have a happy home and a safe haven when they did go into the outside world to face the scorn that was certain to appear.

“I think we need to be leaving,” Christine says, “Where is Gustave?”

“In the kitchen with Julia,” Emilie says, giggling.

Erik rolls his eyes. “Please, lord, just a few more years then they can get married.”

“Emilie, please go get your brother.” Taking the girl by the shoulders and with a kiss on the top of her head, Christine pats her on the bottom and gives her a little push. “And leave Margaret alone.”

The telephone rings just as Erik and Christine are leaving the room. Erik’s effort to cross to the sitting room to answer is thwarted by Gustave running past him.

“I shall answer,” he says dashing into the darkened room, the draperies still not pulled for the day.

“I cannot imagine who might be calling and I really do not want to know.” Erik shakes his head. “Come, my dear, let us get our coats.”

“Papa,” Gustave calls. “Come quick, it is Mr. Khan.”

Erik sighs as he walks to the sitting room. “We are going to be seeing him in however long it will take to drive to Phantasma, why on earth is he calling and where is he calling from?”

“He is at the hotel,” Gustave says, handing the receiver to his father.

Christine, her brow furrowed, waits in the doorway, already donning a black wool coat with a fox collar. She pins on her new black velvet cloche decorated with holly berries. A small wool cape is draped over her arm if needed to fend off the cold air they will find at the ocean front.

“Daroga – we were just leaving – why the call?”

“I see.”

“Is Phillippe there?”

“Raoul?”

“Damn. We shall be there shortly.” His face is grim when he looks up at Christine.

“What is it?”

“The boat has been cut from the mooring and is gone.”

“Raoul?”

Erik shakes his head. “When Phillippe did not see Raoul and Meg in the lobby he went to their suite. Meg said he left earlier…wanted to say a private good-bye. She was just leaving to meet Phillippe in the lobby when he knocked on the door.”

They are all correct about the boat not being suitable for much of anything at Phantasma – even as an artifact of an ancient culture because, quite simply, it is not such. In truth, he was surprised it had not sunk in the lake where he was told it was found. Whoever built it knew nothing about the basic structure of a boat – the shape necessary for the vessel to move gracefully across the water, effortlessly cutting through the waves. There are too many square edges and too few sleek lines. It cannot be used for sailing, even if a suitable mast could be added.

Nor is it artistically pleasant. The wood cutting is amateurish – the dragon head blocky and lacking the fierce drama of the mythical beast. All in all, the boat looks nothing like the majestic vehicle the grainy picture in the advertisement suggested.

Yet, something about the pathetic nature of what the vessel turned out to be, rather than what he imagined, evokes a strange sympathy in him. He is believed to be strangely obsessed with the boat, but what they do not understand is, he is drawn to the thing so much because this is how he sees himself. They are kindred spirits. Each a creation initially born of love ultimately turned to revulsion. The outcome of his life’s loves is sorely lacking.

Starting with his birth – his mother’s death tainted whatever love his father might have had for him. A beautiful and, actually, quite a good baby – or so he was informed – was shunned. Phillippe became his father and despite the love the older boy felt for his brother – he was not supposed to be a father and Raoul always sensed a vague resentment from him.

Then there was Christine. The summer they met he was completely enchanted with her…and her father, who treated him as a son – giving him the love he so craved from his own father. Had he been allowed, he would have joined them on their vagabond journey and never looked back to the life of a vicomte. Of course that was impossible – they were not _his_ kind, much as he might wish he could be _their_ kind.

When he saw her at the Palais Garnier – his only thought was to never let her go again. The singing, the teacher, the life she wanted meant nothing to him. The years between their last meeting found him learning to be a member of the nobility and a woman’s wishes were not considered to be important. He lost her once and that would not happen again. Except it did, almost costing him his life. Even when Erik – he could no longer think of him as a monster – the man was kinder to him than most others – let him go, allowing Christine to leave with him – she was never truly his.

After the failure and humiliation of their marriage, the book would haunt him. Phillippe accused him of prostituting himself telling tales to Leroux – mixing fantasy and reality together, to the point where Phillippe was murdered as a part of the plot. What Leroux made of his tales of the Palais Garnier and the Opera Populaire made him a laughing stock among his peers. Instead of a hero, he was drawn as a weakling who cried excessively and almost cost both him and the daroga their lives. The Comte was furious he involved himself with a writer of mysteries and strange fiction dragging the family name into the homes of the common folk.

In an effort to create peace between them, Raoul suggested a trip to Perros – just the two of them – away from the Parisian gossip about _Le Fantome de l’Opera_ and how the ever-so staid de Chagny clan was involved in the fantastical story. Their distance physically might help quell the whispers and sniggers. _“Out of sight, out of mind,”_ Raoul suggested.

It was the last time he would visit Perros and the last time he would sail.

Raoul could not remember how the argument began. Always a careful crewman – following each order precisely and wanting to learn more and more about sailing until Pere allowed him to man their sailboat. Raoul was at home there. His happiest times were spent on the sea. One of his wishes had been Christine and, later, Gustave’s enjoying the sport, but neither relished being on the boat itself. Christine preferred sitting on the shore. Gustave did not know how to swim and, Raoul had to admit, he was not inclined to teach the boy.

The day was perfect – clear skies – just enough wind to maintain a good steady speed without challenging the skills of a novice, much less an experienced sailor, yet Phillippe would not stop giving him instructions.

_“Shut up. Just shut up.”_

_“The weather has changed and the boat is listing starboard – steady it.”_

_“I know what I am doing.”_

_“You are a fool – you have always been a fool and now you are going to get us both killed.”_

_“Stop nagging at me. I know what I am doing. We are fine.”_

Except things were not fine – the wind picked up several knots, the water becoming rough and angry. Perhaps reflecting the mood of the brothers. The boat _was_ listing. Raoul’s concentration lost – he began to panic. The mainsail was over-corrected and he was unable to steady the vessel. The boat capsized throwing them into the sea. The vessel was lost, carried off to the rocks jutting from the cove where their property was situated. The two men left to themselves to swim back to shore.

This was the last straw with Phillippe. Within weeks, Raoul found himself back in America, the place of his last rejection, because his brother could not stand having him on the same continent.

He was so happy to see Phillippe again, the fact that he was living in Boston for two years before contacting him forgotten in the joy of the reunion. The Viking boat, of course, was the catalyst. Phillippe was unlikely to allow Raoul access to another vehicle of death as he would now refer to them. The comte had come close to drowning. Without Raoul’s extra strength and determination keeping him afloat, he might have suffered the same fate as the Monique de C.

Unable to sleep, Raoul spent most of the night looking out the window of the suite he and Meg share at the Phantasma Hotel. Sweet Meg – the idea they were going to be parents was still hard for him to believe. Another chance at home and family and some sense of self. Their relationship was not one most would consider normal or stable or any of those things making a marriage. Yet, when he observes the people around him – most of the couples he knows are strangely matched, but appear happy. When he looks at Meg, his heart fills with a warmth he did not know was possible.

After hours of staring, he feels he must know what is in the hold of the boat. Christine’s comments about it likely being some sort of burial vehicle makes sense. Someone caught up in the mythology of the Vikings – either from heritage or living in a town called Valhalla – no doubt built it as such. Was it going to be a real burial at sea?

_“Are you sure you want to go there alone? I am concerned with your leg…and what happened yesterday. It is still so dark – and there is almost no moonlight.”_

_“The lamps on the pier are lit. I shall be careful. I simply want a private good-bye.”_

Nadir and Phillippe barely give Erik time to stop the car in front of the hotel before racing toward the towncar. Gustave jumps out, waiting for Christine to gather her coat around her before helping assisting her out onto the sidewalk.

Meg leaves the safe haven of the doorway when Christine approaches with open arms to hold her old friend close. “Are you sure you want to be out here – the weather and your condition?”

“I need to know where he is.” Fighting back tears, Meg forces a small smile. “He was happy when he left – only wanting a private good-bye. He was up all night.”

“Stay close to me,” Christine says. “Let the men go ahead on the beach. We shall walk on the pier, who knows we may find him sitting on a bench waiting for us.”

“Thank you.”

“Erik, Meg and I are going to walk on the pier – perhaps one of you gentlemen could accompany us?”

“Gustave, go with your mother and Meg.”

“Papa? No. Please I want to help – the boat was my project, too.” The tremor in his voice combines with a slight frown and a shifting of his hazel eyes from his father to Meg.

Erik’s own eyes light with understanding. “Forgive me, son. That it was…that it was…Nadir?”

“Of course. Gustave, you go with your father and the Comte,” he says. “I will attend to the ladies. It will be my pleasure.”

Phillippe quirks an eyebrow as he looks to each of the others. “Would it not make more sense for the adult males see to the missing boat and my brother? Gustave is still a child and may not be up to the physical needs we might need.”

“Let him go with his father,” Meg says. “He will do his best to help. From what Raoul told me, the two of them found common ground with this boat.”

Phillippe shrugs. “Very well. I suspect there is more to this than is being revealed, but I am not going to argue. Enough time has been spent already waiting for your arrival. We should have begun looking the minute it was determined the boat was missing.”

“In that you are correct, but we had not expected to be searching yet again for your brother,” Erik says. “Let us not waste any more time. Daroga, were you able to locate Alfred, Dr. Gangle and Squelch.”

Eying Phillippe as he takes Christine and Meg on an arm. “I called them before I called you,” he says. “They are likely already combing the shore on either side of Phantasma to see if the boat has run aground – and, of course for any sign of the vicomte.”

“He would have gone out at high tide – something I suggested, if you recall,” Phillippe snipes.

“Yes, and, if you recall, we decided if we were to have some sort of burial ceremony, it would be advisable to at least have the sun risen – thus, the agreed upon 8 AM.”

“Stop arguing,” Gustave says, plowing ahead onto the sand, leading the way. “We need to find them.”

“Them?” Phillippe says, matching the boy’s pace.

“Raoul always refers to the boat as she or her like a person.” Gustave says, his breathing already getting heavy.

Erik moves away from Phillippe, Gustave and the pier. “Pace yourself son – long strides…do not try to run.”

“Where are you going?” Phillippe asks. “Would it not be best for us to stay together?”

“Whatever for? Who knows where the boat might turn up – if it does,” Erik replies, holding a hand over his eyes to block the sun shining in his eyes. “Moving away from the pier allows a better view of the ocean.”

“What if he is under the pier?”

“That is what you are here for,” Erik snaps. “My god, man, just do what you want. We live here, so do have some idea of where we are going.”

Gustave moves ahead of Phillippe again – taking longer and longer strides, muttering, “Nagging old goat.”

On the pier, snuggling close to the daroga, Meg says, “This was a good idea, Christine. We are actually higher up and closer to the water than the men and have a better view of the shore.”

“Let us hope we can see something useful,” Christine say. “To be honest I find being over the water frightening. I cannot remember the last time…” Stopping short, her breath hitches and she shudders.

“I can,” Meg says. “I am sure Gustave was relieved when Erik remembered and offered you as the sacrificial lamb to accompany us.”

“In any event, the boy deserved to search for the boat,” Nadir says. “No use bringing up that night now – we have enough to concern ourselves with the current emergency.”

“I agree,” Christine interjects. “Let me just say this and we can leave the topic – you have changed since your relationship with Raoul – as Veronique said of me the other day regarding Erik – you glow when you speak of him. At some point I hope Gustave will see the change as well.”

“You know I am sorry…”

“I do…”

“But?”

“An old wound was reopened unexpectedly today. That said, I am here for you.”

“You are making progress, Daughter, just let things happen,” Nadir says, drawing both women to him.

“Daughter?”

“I am married to your mother, so you are my daughter,” he replies. “We three are part of a strange family. Now let us pick up our pace because one of us is in need.”

As they reach the point on the pier where it begins to reach out over the water, they see Dr. Gangle running toward them from Steeplechase Park beach south of Phantasma. Nadir spots Phillippe walking parallel to the pier and calls down to him. “Comte de Chagny. Comte de Chagny.”

Phillippe looks up at Nadir and the two women bending over the rail of the pier. Nadir points toward Gangle making his way toward Erik.

Erik, already moving in that direction, stops briefly, bending over hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“We found the boat,” Gangle calls, taking a cue from Erik to stop momentarily to rest.

Erik straightens up. “The vicomte?”

“I think so – we are not certain,” the master of ceremonies says as he leaves the packed wet sand to struggles through the soft sand reaching Erik’s side. “There is a coat or similar garment hanging over the edge of the boat.”

“Squelch? Alfred?”

“Alfred went towards the old Dreamland beach. Squelch is seeking help from the Steeplechase people.”

“You could not access the boat?”

Shaking his head, the doctor says, “No, it is tipped to one side – the bottom of hull mostly on the shore with the interior facing the water, it would be dangerous for only one or two men to try to get on board. Obnoxious barge all the way around. Could not even go off to its demise without frustrating everyone.”

Turning back toward the pier, Erik sees Gustave watching him conversing with Gangle – Phillippe already making his way toward him.

“Gustave. Come. The boat has been found.” He raises his arm, pointing down the beach, to signal Christine, Nadir and Meg where they are going.

“Let us go, too,” Christine says, retracing their steps on the pier. “Nadir can you drive us to Steeplechase – that seems to be where they are heading?”

“My pleasure,” Nadir replies, taking their arms again, picking up the pace.

“I hope Raoul is all right – I wish we could have heard what Gangle told Erik about him,” Meg says.

“He will be all right, Meg.”

“We shall soon know,” Nadir says. “Best to limit our talking to make better time.”

Beneath them, Phillippe’s attention is drawn to the ruins, from the fire three years earlier. “Wait!” he calls out as he runs under the pier toward the remnants of Dreamland.


	23. New Day, New Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul resolves the issue of the boat. Erik and Christine discuss the outcome with some interesting foreplay. Fluffy smut. This story includes an Epilogue entitled Healing Hearts - a Valentine story that is also published as a one shot. Party time at Phantasma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been following this multi-chapter fic - the 4th in my LND series. Would love any comments about this or any of my other stories. Valentine's Day takes center stage in the Epilogue - Healing Hearts.

_Happy he brought a flashlight along. Meg was right, the moon was still barely a crescent and, despite the light from the pier, the area surrounding the boat was dark. Alfred mooring it with a line forward and aft – tied relatively loosely to the pier. No need to secure it better than that…if a storm came up overnight and it broke loose from the moorings, no one would care._

_The ladder Alfred used to climb on board to secure the ropes to the gunwale was still in place, even though the intention was to simply untie the rope attached to the pier once the burial ceremony was completed._

_High tide was not yet in. Holding the flashlight under his chin, he took his time climbing aboard – his hip still sore from the recent fall. Surprised at the ease of his ascent, he considered it a good omen._

_Perhaps the boat recognized he only wished it well._

_“Now to the task at hand,” he told the dragonhead – having more presence in the darkness – the flawed carving less obvious. The creature dignified as it stared out to sea seeming to be aware of his presence, watching and listening. “I shall do no harm. I simply must see if we are honoring your creator.”_

_The lock on the hold was still secure. Alfred apparently not curious enough to open the hatch. “Just let the thing be gone. Dunna want my men bein’ spooked no more.”_

_A small crowbar pulled from his pocket, the lock was broken in short order. Even with the hatch only opened barely an inch, the smell nearly knocked him off his feet. Pressing a handkerchief to his face, he focused the flashlight on the inside of the hold. The area was perhaps only six by six by six. At first he saw what appeared to be animal bones – suggesting a good-sized dog and two cats along with a number of rodents living and dead._

_Then, there it was – pushed to the farthest corner of the compartment – a skeleton. The rodents, insects, the sea air and time had done their work on whoever sat watching the door in his striped jersey – a sailor’s cap perched atop the bare skull, a broad smile on his face…or so it seemed._

_“God bless you, sir,” Raoul said as he closed the door behind him, not taking the time to examine the boxes and sacks surrounding the corpse. He was grateful the man was closer to the dust stage than in earlier stages of decay. He suspected most of the odor came from the rodents and the overall dampness of the boat. Nevertheless, the salt air never smelled quite so good to him._

_The calm of the boat during his examination was being disturbed now by the tide pulling at it._

_The dragon sentry seemed to be telling him to leave. He had been given permission to come on board, but now it was time to go._

_Returning to the ladder, he climbed over, trying to keep himself steady on the ladder with the boat, rocking more and more as the tide rose. The sleeve of his jacket caught on a cleat, unable to unhook it – he removed the jacket, dropping the flashlight in the effort. Unconcerned, only thinking about finding the beach beneath his feet._

_“Off to Valhalla, may you rest in peace, fellow sailor,” he called out as he undid the ropes, allowing the waves to, hopefully, take the boat out to sea. The high tide is still a few hours away._

_Seeing the lights of Jack’s – he opted for the immediate warmth of the bar and a few hours of rest, rather than attempting to return to the hotel. His work was done. No doubt he will be scolded and mocked, but he was content._

“It is 7:30.” The bartender walks behind the oak bar to rouse the sleeping man.

Raoul snores softly.

Nudging him on the shoulder, the man repeats the time.

The man, who he recognized as the Vicomte de Chagny, was shivering when he came in and no wonder – despite the heavy flannel shirt, woolen pants and knit cap – the weather demanded a coat. The fact made obvious in the way he made his way to the table closest to the pot-bellied stove. With his usual concern for the privacy of the customers, in addition to a general lack of curiosity about the men and occasional women who pass through the bar, he simply asked Raoul what he wanted to drink.

_“Coffee…just some hot coffee.” Then, resting his head on his folded arms, lifting it only to down the black bitter brew in a few swallows, he said, “Please wake me at 7:30 – that will give me time to meet the others,” then promptly fell asleep._

Shaking off the grogginess, Raoul surveys the room, getting his bearings on the surroundings. With a wide yawn, he smiles at the bartender – a man whose name he did not know – a good sign – his visits to Jack’s being few since his return to Phantasma. “Thank you – best sleep I have had in ages.” A chill runs up his spine – he rubs his arms. “Could I bother you for the loan of a jacket or blanket of some sort?”

The man raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “I only have this old pea coat I wear when cleaning up outside.”

“Perfect,” Raoul replies, getting off the stool. “I shall return it without delay.”

Taking the coat he is handed, he puts it on, pulls out some bills from his pant pocket, and lays them on the table. “Without delay, I assure you.”

Closing the door of the Eyrie behind them, Erik assists Christine with her coat, before removing his own outerwear, hanging each piece on its own hook in the armoire.

Once unpinned, her hat joins the other garments. Leaving Erik to follow, she proceeds into the great room of the Eyrie, removing the light duster covering her mourning dress, tossing it over a chair in the library.

“You certainly dressed for the occasion,” Erik says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well, it was dreadfully cold and I should think you would enjoy watching as I shed the layers.”

“Ah, my own Salome.”

“Something like that – only no veils, just layers of warm clothing to prevent me catching a cold,” she laughs lightly, kicking off her shoes. “I am still concerned about leaving Gustave…” The sentence dwindling off as she strolls toward the bedroom, unbuttoning the bodice of her dress.

“As we arranged earlier, Nadir said he would be certain he returned home safely.” Erik removes his suit jacket and cravat as he follows her into their private suite, the late morning sun shines through the skylights, brightening the room.

“That was before the discovery,” she says, hanging her dress in the armoire – now dressed only in her chemise and pantalets.

“Even so, the boy was attached to the thing. I could not deny him a farewell. He trusts Nadir implicitly and this will be a lesson for him, watching the wily Persian deal with the idiot de Chagnys.”

“Meg?”

“Meg?” Erik groans as he removes his trousers, folding them neatly before laying them on top of his other garments on the vanity bench. “Why on earth would you bring up Meg? She will be just fine. Gangle will take good care of her – he always has. Why she chose Raoul instead of Gregory is beyond me. He has been in love with her since they first met. Always there for her through her drug issues. So what if he is not pretty and rich.”

“One could argue Meg is not interested how someone looks,” Christine teases, sashaying over to him, removing his mask.

“You forget, when she saw my face she emptied her stomach on the floor of my performance tent,” Erik scoffs, pulling Christine close, pressing a kiss on her neck. “Meg was and always will be naïve – clinging to the closest man around – except for the one who really cares, sad to say.”

“I suppose so,” Christine says, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning into his kiss. “I am surprised the room is warm – even though we planned to come here after the so-called funeral.”

“I could not have a holiday with my beautiful wife in an icy loft, could I? I had the staff fire up the furnace.” Taking her hand, he leads her to the bed. “However, I suspect we will be much warmer once under the covers.”

“What about the boat…and the body?” she asks, climbing into the four-poster.

“I am afraid even lying abed with us, the body would not find enough warm to regain life – as for the boat…”

“You silly,” she laughs, bouncing to the other side of the bed, making room for him to join her.

After removing his drawers, he climbs in next to her. “Nadir will figure something out with the police – let Phillippe grease the palms of whomever demands a gratuity. That will likely include the Steeplechase people. Sad the boat did not drift northward to the Dreamland ruins. One more piece of detritus for the city to deal with.”

“Someone would have associated it with us.”

“As foolish as he was, insisting on exploring the hold, Raoul likely saved all of us trouble with things working out as they did.”

“He was so happy.” Wriggling close to him, she nestles her head under his chin.

“In the way of fools.”

“Erik!” His comment greeted with a slap on the chest.

“What would you have me say – he was brilliant to endanger his life, not to mention what we have built at Phantasma by opening a literal Pandora’s box? Who knows how many crimes were committed?” Kissing her on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her cologne, a long-fingered hand slips under her chemise, pulling it up over her breasts to caress first one then the other, rubbing each one gently with his thumb.

A soft hiss escapes her full lips. Re-creating his actions, she opens the throat of his shirt to stroke his nipples until they, too, are hard. “Do you think the man – I assume it was a man – was murdered?”

“No, but everything from the sellers to the entire burial at sea business was decidedly misguided – although not so bad if the boat were just released without the hold being disturbed. The plan was to damage the hull so the thing would sink once it was out to sea. Raoul just let it loose to land wherever it might.”

“He does love the sea,” she breathes, helping his wandering hand in removing her pantalets.

“He can sail in Boston Harbor.” He pulls her leg over his hip.

Straddling him, she smiles when she senses his member becoming hard against her belly. “Do you think Phillippe will take them back to Boston?”

He sucks in his breath, bending his legs, he forces her to her knees. Now bent over him, her breasts brush against his lips. “I certainly hope so,” he says before cupping them in his hands to kiss and suckle.

“Sorelli intimated she wished to settle here.” The gentle rocking motion she adopts to stimulate her clit, finds him erect, seeking entry.

“Did she now?”

“Yes, she did.”

Erik sighs heavily. “Well, we shall cross that bridge when we come to it – it will not be the first nor the last, perhaps we can set it on fire before it becomes a reality.”

“Interesting thought, burning the bridge before it has been crossed.” Rising up, she positions herself over his groin.

“I am a master of creation, my dear,” he says, rubbing his member, the tip wet with jism, against her labia. “Now shall we be about enjoying our holiday?”

“Speaking of creation, who would have thought speaking about a Viking burial boat and former romantic entanglements would constitute sexual foreplay?” Placing her hand over his, she directs him to her private place – moist from their banter and play – and sits down taking him fully inside.

Matching his rhythm to hers, he breathes. “We are one. So long as we are together, we can accomplish anything.”

Epilogue - Healing Hearts

“Your favorite holiday.” Erik comes up behind Christine, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing her on the back of her neck. The stage of the Phantasma theater is a riot of red hearts dressing not only the scrims, but as center pieces on the long buffet tables, in preparation for one of their holiday employee parties.

“I suppose I shall always be a romantic,” she replies, leaning back into his hug. “Pappa was a dreamer…I suppose I inherited it from him.” Pulling away, she turns around to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Do you like it?

“Well, it is red and I do like the color…”

“But?”

“It is red.”

“Too much,” she pouts.

“Adele will love it.”

“The white calla lilies will offset some of the red,” she says, “and once the food is in place, you will hardly notice the color.”

“I shall trust your judgment,” he says, looking around. “Where are the others? Why are you doing this alone?”

As if on cue, the Saint-Rien children rush in from backstage with several more baskets of small square boxes wrapped in white and pink paper with red cutout hearts as decoration.

“Maman, here are the gifts,” Emilie and Margaret call out. “We filled them with chocolates and then put on the hearts.”

“They are beautiful – you both did a wonderful job,” Christine says. “I am so proud of you. Now take them over to the other side of the stage – put them on the table by that big heart.”

Gustave and Henry pull up the rear, Joshua holding onto Henry’s hand…licking a red lollipop.

“Oh, Gustave, he is going to be so active,” Christine sighs.

“It is keeping him quiet now,” the eldest son replies. “I will think of something to settle him down if he becomes too much of a nuisance.”

“Promise?”

“Of course, besides Henry likes to play with him and will keep him occupied,” he says, “will you not?”

Henry nods, tousles the toddler’s curls. “Joshua will be the best boy tonight, will you not, my baby brother?”

Joshua rewards him with a big grin, his lips as red as the sucker he is nursing.

“Very well,” Christine sighs. “Go help the girls – make things look festive and inviting. Emilie is likely to just stack the boxes on the table then go off someplace to pretend she is performing.”

“Margaret will do a good job – she loves making things look pretty,” he says. “I will take her direction without complaint.”

“Thank you – I can always count on my boys.”

“Including me?” Erik says.

“Of course, although there are times when I think you and Joshua are twins born at different times.”

“So that is how you speak to your Valentine?” he says.

“You, sir, need to make yourself useful – all you have done so far is mock my red hearts and wonder where my helpers are.”

“And here they come – right on cue.”

Nadir and Adele arrive on the heels of the children. Nadir pushes a cart carrying trays of food to set up on the table. “Raoul and Meg are not far behind with another two carts,” he says. “I do not know why you cannot have these parties in the restaurant.”

“Because Chef would never allow all these wonderful red hearts be hung on the walls,” Adele laughs. “I love it.”

“As I knew you would,” Erik says, “You know very well the restaurant is booked with guests tonight. One would never suspect you were one of the park managers.”

“Is that what I am, I thought I was the influence the police and politicians manager – especially after the boat incident.”

“And a wonderful job you did with that,” Erik smirks, placing a platter on the first table.

“Over here, Erik.” Christine waves him toward her at the second table. “These are the appetizers. First table is for dinnerware and service. Then appetizers. Madame...Nadir, perhaps you could arrange the plates over there.”

Nodding, Nadir and Adele shift their attention to arranging the plates and silver. Movement from stage left catches Adeles’s eye. “Ah, here come Phillippe and Sorelli now.”

“And not far behind, the other pair of Chagnys – the infant-to-be making a Full Boat,” Erik mutters under his breath into Christine’s ear.

Christine’s brow wrinkles. “I do not understand.”

“Poker. Three of a kind and two of a kind are a Full House or Full Boat as river folk call the hand,” Erik explains. “Raoul, Meg, Baby and Phillippe with Veronique…makes sense considering the past several months with the barge Raoul brought into our lives.”

“Erik!” Covering her mouth to disguise both the exclamation and the accompanying giggle, she bends over to pick up one of the trays from the cart to place on the table.

“Sorelli actually makes him almost tolerable,” he says. “I admire her spunk, willing to help with the theater and dancers despite her own handicap.”

“Madame found her place in the same way at the opera house – although Sorelli is likely to be less severe and more charming – she quite charmed everyone at the Garnier,” Christine replies, continuing to unload the service platters on the table, checking under the silver cover to determine where to place them. “I am certain she will add her own touch to the programs.”

“A fresh eye is good, I agree,” he says, smiling as he turns to greet the Chagny family. “Greetings, Chagnys. Happy St. Valentine’s Day, although I wonder why he would be happy – cannot imagine martyrdom to be a joyful event.”

“He died because he married soldiers to their betrothed so they did not have to go to war,” Christine says. “He sacrificed his life for love.”

“Is that true?” Raoul asks.

“Yes,” Meg responds. “I remember hearing the story at catechism. The priest suggested the romantic notion we had about the day was almost sacrilegious.”

“Becoming a saint is no small matter,” Raoul says. “To give up one’s life for love.”

“There is more than one way to give up one’s life than by dying.” Erik and Raoul’s eyes lock.

“Enough,” Christine says, rolling her eyes. “We were all getting along. This is a party.”

“As you say, my dear,” Erik says. “If you will excuse me, I shall make the comte and comtesse welcome to their first experience at a Phantasma holiday event.”

Meg looks up at Raoul with a nod and a smile. Giving her a brief hug, they push their carts toward Christine.

“Maman told us to bring these to you,” Meg says.

“Let us move them over here,” Christine says to her, taking over Raoul’s cart. “Then we can then see what table they belong on. Raoul – help Nadir and Adele with the dishes, unless you want to join Gustave with the children.”

“Sorting dishes will be just fine,” he replies, “I suspect I will be better at that.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true.”

Patting her belly, grown rounder with their child, Meg says, “Soon you will have a child of your own.”

Avoiding Christine’s eyes, Raoul replies, “And a joyous day that will be. Until then I best help in an area where I can cause little damage. Except, of course, if I drop a plate or two.”

“Just be careful, love.”

He blows Meg a kiss and joins Adele and Nadir arranging plates.

“Comte. Comtesse,” Erik says, offering a slight bow. “Welcome to the Phantasma Valentine’s Day party.”

“I am afraid my wheelchair required Phillippe’s attention, so he was unable to bring in one of the food carts,” Sorelli says. “Holding up a stack of napkins from her lap, she offers them to Erik. “Yet, we were still able to make ourselves useful. Non?”

“Oui, Madame,” Erik responds, bowing to the dancer confined to her chair. He takes the linen from her, putting the stack on the table behind him.

“Phillippe, taking the linens to Madame Giry, will you? It appears she is setting the dining tables – I am certain she would appreciate your assistance.”

Raising his eyebrows, the comte’s eyes shift back and forth between his wife and the man some remember as the Opera Ghost. “Of course, my dear. As you wish.”

“Erik, push me to the pit, I want to get a better look at this theater of yours.”

“Of course, Madame.” Erik takes the handles of the chair and pushes her away from the tables toward the orchestra.

“Veronique, please. Or, Sorelli, if that suits you.” An elegant hand, bejeweled with a large emerald, waves the air, brushing aside the formality. “I trust some of what I read in the Fantome book was accurate about your relationship with Christine and my brother-in-law.”

Erik replies with a soft grunt.

“I am sorry we did not meet during those times,” she says with a smirk.

“I doubt you would have been impressed – I was a different man then.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not – your pranks were quite creative. Alas, we shall never know,” she says, glancing back at Raoul. “Old injuries will never heal if you continue to pick the scab. Let the scar remind you of the wound, but to reopen it will only cause infection. Phillippe is just now learning that about his brother as well – theirs is not an easy relationship either.” She holds up her hand again, this time indicating Erik stop where they are at center stage. “This is quite a large auditorium.”

“You expected otherwise?” Erik asks. “While not like the theaters in Manhattan, we do command fairly large audiences – five shows a day.”

Tossing a handful of napkins on the table Adele has completed setting, Phillippe says, “Excuse me – I must see to my wife.”

“Of course.” Watching him trot over to Erik and Sorelli, the elder prima ballerina shrugs. “Men,” she mutters, turning back to her work.

Slowing his pace to a walk, Phillippe comes up behind Erik and his wife, placing a kiss on her rouged cheek. “What are you two talking about with such intensity?”

“The size of the theater, darling. Are you jealous?” she smiles up at him. “Erik says they receive large audiences. It does remind me of the Garnier.”

“Does it?” Phillippe comments, looking out at the auditorium. “I do not see the similarities.”

“All you ever noticed at the Garnier were the girls dancing on stage, husband.” The tone dry, yet with an overtone of amusement. “I doubt Raoul notices the _similarities_ either. This room is actually the Garnier in miniature, is it not, Erik?”

Eying the disapproval of Phillippe’s frown, Eriks says, “Perhaps we should discuss the theater at a later time. You will want to know all the particulars for planning performances – Adele often makes use of the entrances and aisles in her designs. In any event, I believe Christine must be looking for me to help with the party preparations. I have been successful in avoiding my duty up until now.”

“Phillippe! Come here – I have been instructed to fold and place napkins since you abandoned your post,” Raoul calls. “Less breakage.”

“You are like a cat with nine lives,” Phillippe says, taking over control of Sorelli’s chair again, wheeling her back toward the buffet. “Thanks to the gods and Mr. Y, um, M. Saint-Rien.”

“I am happy he is still willing to allow me to be a part of the Pirate attraction project,” Raoul calls back over the chatter created by the arrival of the partygoers.

Erik’s eyes take in the activity on the stage, first moving to Christine giggling with Meg. Then chuckling at Gustave tapping out a rhythm on a table top, some of the staff’s children, newly arrived, hold their stomachs laughing as Henry imitates a little dance Joshua is performing to a song Margaret and Emilie are singing. Nadir and Adele argue over whether the plates or utensils should be the first items the guests would pick up.

He nods at his former rival and finds himself smiling. Whatever fate determined his love for Christine, also seems to want Raoul in his life. This even considering how, at one point, he was ready to interfere if Phillippe insisted Raoul return to Boston with him because of a new Chagny heir.

The entire boat incident found him wanting nothing more than the troublesome boy be as far from Phantasma and his family as possible. However, after much thought and long conversations with Christine, Nadir, Adele and Gustave…particularly Gustave, Raoul’s request to be able to stay on at Phantasma to work on the design for the new ride was approved.

After settling the issue with the Viking dragonhead boat…Alfred and a crew of men broke the vessel apart, the remnants left to the Steeplechase people to use as they wished. Phillippe strongly overruling Raoul keeping any part of the vessel. A legal burial of the remains found in the hold of the boat – man and pets – in a proper casket – was held in the Potter’s field, thanks to Nadir’s connections.

For better or worse, he determines, Raoul belongs here – part of his strange family as Nadir said. The presence of Sorelli enlivens everyone, so she, too, was added to the payroll – working with both Christine and Adele and, most likely Meg, to develop new programs for the dancers.

If the Norse gods had cast a spell over them, the hex was broken and, despite Phillippe’s continued distrust, life was returning to normal.

Spring was in the air – in spirit, if not reality – rebirth and new beginnings. There was something oddly comforting being surrounded by the people from his life from a past he never thought he would look upon with any fondness. Yet, here they were celebrating Valentine’s Day together.

As if reading his thoughts, his Angel looks up from her fussing with the smorgasbord and smiles, brushing a loose curl from her brow.

Blessed. I am truly blessed if only for being the momentary recipient of that smile and the brightness of her eyes. “I am coming, my dear. What would you have me do?”

“As usual, you have succeeded in avoiding any of the preparations…Sorelli has always been an enchantress,” she comments, looking up at him from under her long lashes.

“Who?”

Laughing, she says, “Perhaps you would play something as our guests have their dinner.”

Taking her hand, he leads her to the piano. “Only if you sing for me.”


End file.
